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1 
























By James B. Hendryx 


Connie Morgan in Alaska 

Connie Morgan with the Mounted 

Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps 

Connie Morgan in the Fur Country 

Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country 

The Promise 

The Gun Brand 

The Texan 

The Gold Girl 

Prairie Flowers 

Snowdrift 

North 





The whole remuda swept on up the bench and into the Valley 




CONNIE MORGAN 

IN THE 

CATTLE COUNTRY 


BY 


M 



JAMES B. HENDRYX 

AUTHOR OF “CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA,” ETC. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS 

BY 

FRANK E. SCHOONOVER 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 
Cbe *Rnickerbocket press 
1923 



yzi 

’"Co. 


Copyright, 1933 
by 

James B. Hendryx 


© Cl A 7 6 0 3 8 9 



Made in the United States of America 


OCT 16 1923 


"VU 


l 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGB 

I.—Waseche Bill Tells a Story . . 3 

II.—Kobuk Jack.16 

III. —Two Dot Townsend ... 28 

IV. —Bob Harmon.42 

V.—At the Round Seven ... 50 

VI.—Learning the Ropes 57 

VII.—Connie Meets a Neighbor . . 71 

VIII.— Tex .86 

IX.—Harmon Talks .... 96 

X.—Left Handed Branding Irons . 108 

XI.—The Wagons Roll . . .117 

XII.—Harmon Shows his Hand . .132 

XIII. —The Sage Brush Corral . . 148 

XIV. —The “Greenness” of Connie 

Morgan.163 




IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XV.- 

-I. w. w. 

• 

• • 

PAGE 

177 

XVI.- 

-Fire 

# 

• • 

192 

XVII.- 

-In the Bad Lands . 

• 

• • 

208 

XVIII.- 

- The Outlaw. 

• 

• • 

224 

XIX.- 

-At the Agency 

• 

• 

242 

XX.- 

-Connie Calls a Bluff . 

• • 

256 

XXI.- 

-The Cowboys Help 

Out 

• • 

270 

XXII.- 

-A Riding Job 

• 

• • 

280 

XXIII.- 

-Connie Listens to a 

Proposition . 

296 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The Whole Remuda Swept on up the Bench 
and into the Valley . . Frontispiece 

“An’ I Kept A-goin’ Till it Petered Out, 
an* I was Lost” . 

As they Passed along the Street Connie 
Took in the Details of the Little Cow 
Town. 

Connie Found himself Holding on for 
Dear Life as the Wheels would Drop 
Suddenly into a Bottomless Chuck Hole 
and Emerge, Dropping Huge Chunks of 
Gray Alkali Mud ..... 

The Sheepman Eyed him with a Hostile 
Glare. “Why Didn’t you Ride Right 

THROUGH ’em?” HE ASKED 

A Moment Later the Muzzles of Four 
Rifles were Thrust through Four Aper¬ 
tures in the Sagebrush that was Loosely 
Woven between the Wires of the Fence 


PAGE 

16 

32 

64 

96 

128 


v 


VI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Harmon’s Face was Ghastly Pale as he 
Elevated Both Hands High above his 
Head ... ... 

. . . Then Froze in his Tracks as he Found 
himself Staring into the Muzzle of the 
Boy’s Service Revolver 


PAGB 


I64 


196 





























Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country 


I 




Connie Morgan in the 
Cattle Country 

CHAPTER I 

WASECHE BILL TELLS A STORY 

“This little cabin sure looks good to me,” 
smiled Connie Morgan on the evening of his hasty 
return from the Mackenzie River country, as he 
and Waseche Bill settled themselves comfortably 
in front of the little stove. “No matter where I 
am, or what I’m doing, I always think of this little 
cabin on Ten Bow. It makes a fellow feel good 
just to know it’s here, and you’re here, and I can 
come back any time I want to.” The boy paused 
and glanced affectionately at his big partner, who 
was smiling behind the bowl of his black pipe. 
“It isn’t that I don’t like the trail,” he added 
quickly, “because I do—and the longer the trail, 

3 


4 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

the better I like it. And I like to have something 
to do that takes me into places I never have been 
before—and I like to tackle jobs I have never 
tackled before—just to see if I can do them. But, 
all the same, I always want to know that this 
cabin is right here just as it was when we built it. 
I’ll tell you what it is—it’s home. A fellow likes to 
know he’s got a home, no matter where the trail 
takes him—and this is home for us. And, say, 
Waseche, you won’t ever tear it down while I’m 
away somewhere, will you? I’d rather have it 
just the way it is than have the biggest house in 
the world.” 

“Sho’, now, son,” the voice of Waseche Bill 
rumbled from behind a cloud of blue tobacco 
smoke, “sho’, now. That’s plumb foolishness.” 

“Oh, it is, is it?” flashed the boy. “Well then, 
you tell me why that big flume runs along the 
other bank of the creek instead of this bank?” 

“The big flume? Why it runs down the crick 
to carry water to the sluices, of co’se.” 

“But,” persisted the boy, “why does it run 
along the other side of the creek instead of this 
side?” 

“Cain’s the engineer of this here outfit,” 



5 


Waseche Bill Tells a Story 

grinned the man. “I reckon it’s on the other 
side ’cause Cain built it there.” 

Connie laughed: “ You’re a big bluffer, Waseche! 
Don’t you suppose I know you love this cabin 
just as much as I do ? Anyone with any sense could 
see that that flume could have been built along 
this bank with half the work it took to build it 
there. I asked Cain when I came back from the 
lumber woods, and he told me all about it. He 
said that when you looked at the blue print, and 
found out that this cabin would have to be tom 
down to make way for the flume, you told him 
to put it on the other side, no matter how much 
it cost—so there!” 

“H-u-m-m,” grinned Waseche Bill, “Cain’s 
plumb gabby, ain’t he? But, son, you don’t need 
to worry about this here cabin. It’s the onliest 
home I ever had since befo’ I kin remember. An’ 
Cain’s got his orders about leavin’ it where it’s at. 
I told him if the sills was restin’ on a solid chunk 
of gold, the gold could lay there till the last log 
rotted an’ the roof caved in. It’s all foolish¬ 
ness, that-a-way, but—shucks! Gold ain’t every¬ 
thing!” 

‘Well, now I’m here,” said the boy, “tell me 


6 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

about that scrap we’re going to have with that 
outfit from the States.” 

“We ain’t goin’ to have none,” answered 
Waseche Bill, laconically. 

“You don’t mean you’re figuring on selling 
out?” cried the boy. 

“No—only jest, we stay where we’re at—an’ 
so do they.” 

Connie laughed: “How did you work it, 
Waseche?” 

“Who, me? Why, I didn’t do nothin’, except 
tell ’em they’d have to wait till my pardner come 
back. They was five of ’em in the outfit an’ they 
stayed at the hotel. The boys kind of got to in¬ 
quirin’ around what they were doin’ here, an’ 
I told ’em they was aimin’ fer to drive me an’ you 
out of the country. The next night Black Jack 
Demeree, an’ MacDougal, an’ Dutch Henry, an’ 
a lot more of the sourdoughs called a miner’s 
meetin’. I didn’t go to it. But, next day the outfit 
pulled out. Seems like the boys sent out an’ 
brung these here fellows in on a snowshoe warrant, 
an’ they was speeches made by some considerable 
of the boys. I don’t know jest what they said, 
but after they’d got through, the head man of the 


7 


Waseche Bill Tells a Story 

outfit gets up an’ he says how they’d decided not 
to locate on Ten Bow—that the formation wasn’t 
just right to suit ’em, or the water, or somethin’— 
anyways, they pulled out—an’ from what I heard, 
I ain’t lookin’ for ’em back.” Waseche paused to 
fill his pipe, and Connie smiled to himself as he 
pictured the scene in the miner’s meeting. A lump 
rose in his throat as he wondered what the sour¬ 
doughs had said—those big men of the North, who 
were his friends, and the friends of Waseche Bill. 

Waseche tossed a burnt match into the wood box 
and his brow puckered as he puffed at his pipe. 
“They’s another matter that’s pesterin’ me now,” 
he said. “Seems like I’m, somehow, always a- 
gettin’ into somethin’ that I ain’t got no business 
into, like that there timber deal down in Minne¬ 
sota.” 

“We made good money out of it,” reminded 
the boy. 

“Yes, but we wouldn’t if it hadn’t be’n fer you 
goin’ down there an’ runnin’ the thing. An’ 
besides, we ain’t got to make money, nohow. We 
got more cornin’ in right now out of the gravel 
here on Ten Bow than we know what to do with— 
an’ that’s where the trouble comes in.” 


8 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Sure we have,” agreed the boy, quickly. 
“But, there’s no fun in that. It was a game—and 
a big one, while we were getting a start. But, 
now we’ve got things going, there isn’t any fun in 
just sitting down and weighing the dust. Do you 
know, in a way, I’m kind of sorry those fellows 
quit. It would have been fun fighting them. But, 
what’s this new thing that’s bothering you?” 

Waseche Bill ran his fingers through his hair, 
and regarded the boy gravely. “Well, it’s this-a- 
way: Me an’ you is in the cattle business.” 

“The cattle business!” cried Connie, in sur¬ 
prise. “The cattle business up here! Why there 
isn’t grass enough on Ten Bow to keep a caribou 
in the summer time—and what’ll they do in 
winter?” 

“This here cattle business ain’t on Ten Bow. It 
ain’t even in Alaska. It’s in Montana.” 

Connie grinned. “Another job for me. When do 
I start?” 

Waseche shook his head: “No, son, I don’t 
reckon this here is any job fer you. You don’t 
savvy the cattle business no more than Kobuk 
Jack did, an’ it would git you.” 

“Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn’t,” 




9 


Waseche Bill Tells a Story 

retorted the boy. “Anyway, I’m going to give it 
a chance to get me. I didn’t know anything about 
the timber business either, when I tackled that 
Minnesota job, but it didn’t take me long to 
learn ’ ’ 

“That was sort of different,” interposed Wa¬ 
seche Bill. “These here cowboys—I’ve heard tell 
about ’em—is plumb riotorous an’ lawless to the 
extent which they ain’t none regardful of human 
life whatever. They all pack guns, an’ when they 
meet up they begin shootin’ at one another, same 
like in this country we say klahowya six , or good 
mornin’.” 

Connie laughed: “I guess they’re not as bad as 
all that. Dan McKeever has had a lot of experience 
with ’em down on the border, and he likes ’em. 
Of course there’s good ones and bad ones among 
them the same as anyone else—and as for packing 
guns—I’ve got a Service revolver there that’s just 
as good as any man’s gun—and a little better than 
most. But loosen up and tell me something about 
this cattle deal. How did we get mixed up in it? 
And who is Kobuk Jack?” 

“Well, it’s this-a-way,” began Waseche tilting 
his chair against the log wall, and stretching his 




io Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

long legs straight out before him. “One time, a 
good many years before the big stampede, when 
I was nothin’ but a chechako , I outfitted at Nulato 
an’ headed North, not havin’ no more idea what 
I was goin’ up against, than a baby. Well, I kep’ 
to the Koyukuk till I hit Hog River an’ then 
headed up that, an’ I kep’ a-goin’ till it petered 
out, an’ I was lost. It was gittin’ right into the 
shank of the winter. The days was gittin’ shorter 
an’ the nights longer, till the time come when I 
got sunrise an’ sunset in one eyeful, an’ the next 
day, an’ for many a day after, they wasn’t neither 
one. The snow was so deep an’ soft that I couldn’t 
make no time trailin’ an’ then my grub got to 
runnin’ low. I was up against it—good an’ strong. 
But I kep’ pluggin’. If I made four or five miles 
a day I done well. The strong cold was on—forty 
an’ fifty, an’ even sixty below, an’ when the cold 
would let up it snowed some more. Then I done 
it, the only time I ever done it—I killed a dog, an’ 
for three days I lived off him an’ fed the rest of the 
dogs. I had built a kind of a Siwash camp out of 
brush an’ spruce saplin’s ’cause I was too weak 
to trail through that snow. An’ anyway, bein’ as 
I didn’t know where I was headin’, one place was 


II 


Waseche Bill Tells a Story 

as good as another—an’ that means that all 
places was the worst they could be. 

“Me an’ the dogs finished the one I’d killed an’ 
I was about to kill another, when sudden like, a 
voice speaks out hearty an’ plain right behind me. 
‘Hold on, brother,’ it said. ‘Dogs pull better with 
the hide on! ’ 

‘ ‘ I whirled around quick, not expectin’ really to 
see no one. I thought it was—the end—that the 
voice was in my own brain. But, sure enough, 
there he stood, rearin’ up as big as two men in the 
gloom—Kobuk Jack! Course I didn’t know who 
he was—an’ I didn’t care. He was a human man, 
an’ his outfit bulged on top of his toboggan. I 
couldn’t say nothin’. Jest stood there an’ gawped. 

“Kobuk, he looked me over thorough, an’ my 
empty sled, an’ the skull of the dog that had be’n 
boiled fer soup till there wasn’t a bite fer a no-see- 
em left on it, an’ then he grinned. ‘I’m Kobuk 
Jack,’ he announced, abrupt, ‘an’ you’re the dog- 
gondest fool of a chechako that’s be’n invented. 
Where you headin’? An’ what business you got 
up here in a man’s country? Why ain’t you back 
on the Yukon where you kin set comfortable an* 
spit on the stove of nights ? ’ 


i2 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


“ 4 1 guess you’ve got me right, Kobuk,’ I says ? 
managin’ to return his grin, although my eyes 
wouldn’t stay off that bulgin’ load on his toboggan. 
‘By way of handier designation, though,’ I says, 
‘folks call me Waseche Bill. I headed up here 
after gold. I got lost an’ my grub run out, an’ 
I’d give a pretty to be back on the Yukon spittin’ 
on a stove.’ 

“Kobuk, he laughed, an’ the next minute he 
was unharnessin’ his dogs, an’ in no time he had 
a meal of vittles cooked which was far an’ away 
the best meal I ever et, or ever will. When it was 
finished Kobuk an’ me smoked up, an’ Kobuk he 
further orates, ‘I run onto yer trail back yonder,’ 
he says, ‘an’ I know’d you was a chechako ’cause 
you had a sled instead of a toboggan in this here 
soft snow country. An’ I seen by the signs how 
you was about all in. So I swung in behind, 
knowin’ I wouldn’t have far to go. I passed over 
more than a week of your trail in four hours— 
that’s the difference between knowin’ how—an’ 
not knowin.’ You was a fool to head North. So 
was I four years ago—but I did. I come about as 
near cashin’ in as you did. An Injun found me. 
But, I ain’t afraid of the country now. I’ve learned 


13 


Waseche Bill Tells a Story 

it—an’ I hate it. I’ve got a camp up on the Kobuk, 
about a hundred miles from here, an’ I’m takin’ 
out considerable better than wages. Spite of you 
bein’ a fool chechako , I like you. It’s just such 
fools as you an’ me that gits what they’re after in 
the long run—pervided the snow an’ the strong 
cold don’t git us first. You’re goin’ along with me, 
an’ we’ll go pardners in my outfit on the Kobuk, 
an’ if we stay with it, sometime we’re goin’ to 
make a strike.’ 

“He wouldn’t have it no other way, an’ so I 
throw’d in with Kobuk Jack, an’ he was some man. 
We gouged the gravel together for a year, Kobuk 
always claimin’ we’d strike it big—always hatin’ 
the country, an’ declarin’ when he struck it he 
was a-goin’ down to Montana an’ buy him a 
cattle outfit an’ live like a king where they have 
daylight the year around, an’ twenty below zero 
was called a cold spell. 

“When the year was out, I’d had enough of the 
Kobuk country. I couldn’t see it like Kobuk Jack 
that there was a big strike ahead, so I pulled out 
an’ drifted back to the Yukon camps an’ fer a 
couple of years I worked fer wages, an’ pros¬ 
pected, an’ just about come out even. 


14 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“I was at Nulato when Kobuk came out with 
his stake. It wouldn’t stack up big along with the 
Klondike or the Nome strikes. But she was big 
fer them days, couple hundred thousan’ or so, an’ 
Kobuk wanted me to go with him to Montana an’ 
go into the cattle business. But I wouldn’t an’ 
then he wanted me to take a bunch of his dust, 
but I wouldn’t do that, neither. 

“A stampede started fer the Kobuk, but I didn’t 
go—I’d had enough. After Kobuk had be’n gone 
a week, the storekeeper sends fer me one day an’ 
hands me a buckskin sack that’s heavy with dust. 
‘Kobuk Jack told me to give you this, fer a grub 
stake,’ he says, ‘An’ he says he’s gone fer good, an’ 
you can’t refuse it, ’cause he made me promise if 
you wouldn’t take it, I’m to throw it in the river 
where no one kin find it.’ I took it, bein’ as it 
wasn’t no use havin’ it throw’d in the river, an’ 
that’s the last I ever seen or heerd of Kobuk Jack 
till a month ago, when all at once, he stepped 
through the door of the office, yonder. He’d aged 
some, but I know’d him the minute I clapped eyes 
on him, an’ he was the same Kobuk as ever, rough 
talkin’, but hearty an’ pure gold clean through. 
I could see, though, he seemed kind of worried 


Waseche Bill Tells a Story 15 


about somethin’ er other, so I called it a day an’ 
shut up the office, an’ we come on over here, an’ 
Kobuk, he cooked dinner, same as he used to, 
an’ after we done the dishes an’ hung up the rag, 
we smoked up. 


CHAPTER II 


KOBUK JACK 

“ ‘Come on out with it, Kobuk,’ I says. ‘What’s 
on yer mind? They ain’t no use heatin’ about the 
bush between friends. How’s the cattle business? 
An’ what you doin’ up here?’ 

“ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘fact is, Waseche,’ he says, 
‘the cattle business is bigger than I bargained fer. 
It’s got me. I’m broke, er will be. I figger that 
when they git through with me, I’ll have about 
twenty thousan’ less than nothin.’ ” 

“ ‘What’s the trouble?’ I intrudes. ‘Don’t yer 
cows give no milk?’ 

“ ‘Milk!’ he yells. ‘Milk!’ You dog-gone fool! 
I ain’t runnin’ no dairy! I’m runnin’ a cow outfit 
—beef! Twenty thousan’ head or so on the range!’ 

“ ‘Must be quite a chore around butcherin’ 
time,’ I admits, an’ again he yells out at me. 
‘Butcherin’ time! Why, you cussed ignoramous, 
we don’t butcher ’em!’ 



< l 


A.n’ I kept a-goin’ till it petered out, and I was lost ” 






Kobuk Jack 


17 


'“Eat ’em alive?’ I suggests. 

'Ship ’em!’ he roars. 'Ship ’em to Chicago. 
Load ’em on trains an’ ship ’em!’ 

“ 'Sounds easy,’ I ventured. ‘How-come you 
busted? You must git quite a stake off a trainload 
of cattle.’ 

“ ‘I do, but somehow, I ain’t gittin’ the calves 
I should. In other words, someone else is brandin’ 
Round Seven calves, that’s my brand. An’ again, 
the sheep men are crowdin’ me off the range, an’ 
anyway I ain’t no business man, an’ my wife, she 
don’t like the country no better than what I do, 
an’ the kids is growin’ up rough on account of so 
many cowpunchers fer playmates, an’ take it first 
an’ last, I’m sick of the cattle business. The wife 
wants to come back to Alaska—she was a nurse in 
the hospital at Nome when I was took down there 
with a frozen foot. Hadn’t be’n fer her I’d be 
wearin’ a wooden one now. When I made my 
strike I went up to St. Michaels on the way out an’ 
we was married.’ 

“ ‘So there’s a Missus Kobuk, an’ some little 
Kobukses, is there?’ I inquires. ‘What do you 
want to do? Go back up on the Kobuk? Of course 
up there they wouldn’t be no bad playmates fer the 


18 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

kids, an’ maybe Missus Kobuk would like it—she 
wouldn’t have to mush more than a hundred miles 
fer to call on her neighbors, an’ them Eskimo 
Klooches would be right proud to have her visit 
their igloos.’ 

“ ‘Go ahead, an’ have yer fun out,’ grins Kobuk, 
‘an’ then we’ll talk sense.’ 

“ ‘Unburden yerself,’ I opines. ‘I’m here to 
listen.’ 

“ ‘I was on the train cornin’ from Chicago this 
fall when I meets up with Moosehide Charlie, him 
headin’ back fer the inside after a trip to the cities 
where he seen the sights to the extent of his pile. 
An’ while Moosehide talked about the big country, 
I listened. He talked solid fer most two days, an’ 
I got a pretty good history of the big country since 
I quit it, in the course of which he elaborates that 
you an’ your pardner, which he was only a kid, 
but some sourdough, at that, had struck it big on 
Ten Bow. Accordin’ to Moosehide, old Andy 
Morgan an’ John D. Carnagie, an’ P. J. Rocky- 
feller, couldn’t scrape up an ante between ’em big 
enough to set in your game with. Well, you know 
Moosehide—he thinks in bigger figgers than what 
the facts justifies, an’ always did, but at that, I 



19 


Kobuk Jack 

takes the trouble to look you up an’ I finds out 
that Moosehide wasn’t so far off as he generally is. 
So, I come up to see you.’ Kobuk, he kind of 
hesitates, a little, an’ then he goes on. ‘The fact 
is, Waseche,’ he says, ‘you’re my only chance. I 
wouldn’t of come if I hadn’t found out you was in 
shape so what I need wouldn’t even make a hole 
in yer pile. What I want to know is will you loan 
me enough to break even? You’ll get part of it 
back—you prob’ly never will get it all back ’cause 
I’ve got to hunt a job—an’ a man with a job an’ a 
family to support will be a long time payin’ off 
twenty thousand dollars. But, if that cattle busi¬ 
ness was run right I know it would pay. I ain’t 
the man to make it pay. I ain’t got capital enough 
to buy up some sheep outfits, an’ a lot of water 
rights an’ to fight the rustlers with—if I had I 
would stay an’ fight it out.’ 

* ‘ He stops an ’ waits fer me to speak. ‘ How much 
do you need ? ’ I asks. 

“ ‘I figure twenty thousan’ would let me out 
even,’ he says. ‘It would pay my debts an’ fix 
things so no one would lose any money on my 
account. I don’t know exact—somewhere between 
eighteen an’ twenty-five thousan’.’ 


20 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


“ ‘An’ where would that leave you?’ I asks. 
‘Where do you go from here?’ 

“ ‘Why,’ he says, ‘I can go to Chicago an’ get 
a job.’ 

“ ‘What kind of a job?’ I inquires, ‘would you 
figure on holdin’ down—in Chicago?’ 

“ ‘I ain’t figured that far ahead,’ says Kobuk. 
‘Any kind of a job that would make a livin’ fer 
the wife an’ kids. I’m a plumb failure in business 
fer myself, but I kin do as much work as I ever 
could.’ 

“ ‘Le’s see if I’ve got the straight of it,’ I says, 
‘Missus Kobuk wants to come back to Alaska, 
but you want to go to Chicago. You don’t like 
the big country no more. You’ve got plumb citified 
till mountains an’ rivers an’ snow, an’ dogs an’ all 
that goes along with it don’t interest you no more. 
You’d ruther live in a city in one of these here 
flat-top houses that all looks alike an’ is inhabited 
by so many numerous folks that your neighbor 
that lives acrost the hall passes you on the street 
without knowin’ he ever seen you before. An’ on 
top of that you want a job like one of these here 
men that stands back of a counter in a store an’ 
sells ribbons an’ cloth by the yard to women, or 


Kobuk Jack 


21 


like the ones that wears white aprons an’ stands 
behind them rows of shiny faucets, which it taxes 
their judgment to recommend a ten-year-old kid 
if he should take pineapple or strawberry juice in 
his sody water.’ 

“Kobuk, he was gittin’ a little red around the 
gills, an’ I know’d I’d kind of got to him. ‘Look 
a here, Waseche,’ he says, ‘ you know blame well 
I’d ruther be here in Alaska than anywheres else 
in the world, an’ so would the wife—the country’s 
got into my blood an’ into her blood. We both 
thought when we went outside we never wanted 
to see it ag’in—but, shucks, we hadn’t be’n away 
two years till we both would have give anything 
to be back, but we was in too deep to git out. An’ 
now there ain’t no chance to come back. If I was 
alone I’d come in a minute, but I ain’t alone. 
I’ve got the wife and kids to think about an’ to 
make a livin’ for, an’ a job is a job. Suppose we 
come North, what would we do? I couldn’t leave 
’em in some town or camp while I struck out in 
the hills an’ made a strike. The time for strikes 
has gone, anyway, an’ what would become of them 
while I was out punchin’ holes in the gravel of 
creeks? Alaska ain’t a poor man’s country no 



22 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


more, Waseche—an’ I’m a poor man. But, that 
ain’t neither here nor there. I come to you as one 
friend to another. I need the twenty thousan’, 
an’ need it bad. You’ve got it, an’ with the capital 
you’ve got behind you, you kin git your money 
back—an’ a lot more with it. I’ve told you the 
facts in the case. Now, do I git the twenty thou¬ 
san’, or don’t I?’ 

“ ‘How much did you put into this here outfit 
to start out with ? ’ I asks. 

“ ‘A little better than a hundred thousan’ an’ 
give a mortgage for a hundred an’ fifty fer the 
balance, an’ I’ve paid about fifty thousan’ of 
that.’ 

“ ‘An’ how many of these here cows do you 
reckon you’ve got left?’ ‘Somewhere’s around 
ten thousan’ head,’ he says. 

“ ‘An’ what do you claim the whole works is 
worth, as she lays?’ 

“ ‘Take ’em as they run, the goin’ price is 
around twenty-five dollars a head, an’ the ranch 
buildin’s an’ hay fields an’ all the rest of it say 
twenty thousan’.’ 

“I figures fer a minute with a pencil, an’ then 
I says, ‘So she stands worth about $270,000. 



Kobuk Jack 23 

Takin’ off $100,000 fer the mortgage, she stands 
at somewheres around $170,000.’ 

‘That’s it,’ agrees Kobuk. ‘That’s what she 
figures on paper—an’ she’s worth every cent of 
it to anyone that had another quarter of a million 
to dump into the outfit. They’d have a million 
dollar proposition, then. The way they’ve got me 
hemmed in by fair means an’ foul, she’s worth 
about twenty thousan’ less than nothin’.’ 

“I figures a little more, an’ Kobuk he gits rest¬ 
less. He gits up an’ walks around an’ his pipe 
goes out five or six times in as many minutes. 
Then he picks up his cap. ‘Do I get the twenty 
thousan’, or don’t I?’ he asks again. 

“ ‘You don’t,’ says I. Well, sir, you should of 
seen Kobuk’s face. He didn’t say a word, jest 
stood there with his fingers grippin’ his hat fer a 
long time. Then he turns to the door: 

“ ‘Well, so long, Waseche,’ he says, an’ I noticed 
his voice sounded kind of hoarse like. ‘I’ve got to 
be goin’ back.’ 

“ ‘I’d be’n writin’ out the check while he was 
standin’ there, but he didn’t notice. ‘Hold on, 
Kobuk,’ I says, as he pulls open the door, ‘if this 
will help you out any, you’re welcome to it.’ I 


24 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

held out the check an’ he closed the door an’ took 
the piece of paper in his hand. He stood lookin’ 
at it fer a full minute like he don’t know what it is. 

“ ‘ A hundred—an’—seventy—thousan’—dollars 
—’ he says, slow like. ‘What’s this, Waseche?’ 

“ ‘Why, it’s the pay fer yer cows,’ I says. 
‘We’re buyin’ yer outfit, lock, stock an’ barrel. 
You kin fix up the papers when you go back. An’ 
that ain’t all, Kobuk,’ I says. ‘If I done you right, 
I’d back you up ag’in that wall an’ punch yer head 
fer you.’ 

“ ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. 

“ ‘I mean just what I said. I suppose you’ve 
fergot a chechako you found one time in the snow, 
eatin’ dog in a Siwash camp way up in the Hog 
River country. You fergot that you took that 
chechako over onto the Kobuk an’ give him a 
pardnership in a payin’ claim. You fergot that 
you taught him more about minin’ an’ mushin’ 
an’ playin’ a man’s game than he know’d there was 
to learn. An’ you fergot that a couple of years 
after—when you made yer strike, you found him in 
Nulato workin’ fer wages, an’ you left a poke of 
dust with the storekeeper with instructions to make 
the chechako take the dust. Them things you 


Kobuk Jack 


25 


fergot—but the chechako didn't jergit. But what 
makes me mad is this—years afterwards, when 
the tables is turned the other ways around, an’ 
you’re broke, an’ the chechako has played into big 
luck, you come along an’ ask him to loan you 
enough to break even! Yes sir, it makes me mad— 
Break even! So you can go to Chicago an’ hunt you 
up a measly job amongst the stinks an’ the noises 
of a city where the chances is yer kids would git 
killed by street cars or automobiles, or if they 
didn’t they’d git hydrophoby er consumption fer 
want of a lungful of clean air! You tell me yer a 
failure because you couldn’t make a go of raisin’ 
cows. Well, it just happens that me an’ my pardner 
is huntin’ fer just such a failure as you be. I’ve 
worked with you up on the Kobuk. Listen here. 
You go back an’ git the fambly an’ head with ’em 
fer Fairbanks as quick as you kin git squared off. 
We’ve got a proposition to develop over on the 
Chena that’s big. We ain’t touched it yet, because 
we ain’t found the right man to handle it. But, 
now we’ve found him. If it’s a job you want, 
you’ve got one—an’ she’s a bigger job than you’ve 
ever tackled, at that. You kin live in Fairbanks 
where there’s good schools fer the kids, an’ good 



26 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

society for the woman. An’ that ain’t all. What 
you don’t use out of the check, you’d better put 
into the proposition. We’ll organize the Chena 
Development Company, an’ take it from me, yer 
money will more than double every couple of 
years.’ ” 

Waseche paused and filled his pipe. 

“What did he say?” asked Connie, who had 
been an eager listener. 

“He didn’t say nothin’,” answered Waseche. 
“It ain’t Kobuk’s way. But next day I had to go 
to the doctor where he’d shook my hand. Oh, yes, 
they was one question he asked just before he 
went away. He says, ‘But, what will yer pardner 
think of this deal ? I see this here is a pardnership 
check.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘an’ that’s the way she stands. 
I’ve tried onct or twict to shoulder the load alone 
when I’d made some outside investment that 
might not pay out—an’ I ain’t aimin’ to try it no 
more.’ ” 

Connie laughed. “You better not try it!” he 
exclaimed. “But this one is a dandy.” 

“What do you mean, son?” 

“I mean that I wouldn’t have missed it for the 


Kobuk Jack 27 

world! I’m going to hit out for Montana and 
make it pay!” 

“Sho’, now, mebbe it would be better to jest 
let go an’ git out with as little loss as we kin—an’ 
charge it off to ‘grub stake’.” 

“Not by a long shot we don’t take a loss—not 
unless we have to! What do we care if we dump a 
few more thousand into it? We’ve got more than 
we can ever spend. And besides it wouldn’t be 
playing the game. No, sir! Now we’re into it, 
we’ll go through with it—and if we lose, we will 
have had a run for our money, anyway.” 

“All right, son, go as far as you like—I’m for 
you,” grinned Waseche. “But, at that, I never 
seen no kid before that was always just a-honin’ 
fer a fight.” 



CHAPTER III 




TWO DOT TOWNSEND 

The great trans-continental train that bore 
Connie Morgan eastward from Seattle to his desti¬ 
nation in Montana ground to a protesting stop 
before the little station of Red Bank, and Connie 
stepped from the vestibule to a rubber-topped 
stool ostentatiously placed for him by the obse¬ 
quious porter, and from the stool to the cinder 
platform. Up ahead he saw his big tarpaulin- 
covered bed roll, which served also as a trunk, 
tossed from the door of the baggage car. A blue- 
clad arm waved the “high-ball,” the vestibule 
door slammed shut, and the heavy train moved 
smoothly along the rails, gaining momentum with 
every revolution of the wheels. The boy watched 
it for a moment, and turned to survey his immedi¬ 
ate surroundings. 

The town of Red Bank, Montana, may be sur¬ 
veyed from advantage from almost any point 

28 


Two Dot Townsend 


29 


within its precincts. Nestled close against the 
railroad in the broad valley of the Milk River, its 
single street, flanked on either side by wooden 
sidewalks, runs between two rows of story-and-a- 
half frame buildings whose square false fronts 
serve as an advertising medium for the emblazon¬ 
ing of the wares within. The street continued for 
perhaps two hundred yards parallel with the rail¬ 
way track and terminated abruptly in a broad 
flat whereon were located the shipping corrals, 
with their system of alleys and chutes and pens 
enclosed by board fences eight feet high and sup¬ 
ported by posts a foot thick. The wooden stores, 
the shipping corrals, together with the station, the 
water tank, and the section house, the last three 
painted red, composed the entire commercial as¬ 
pect of Red Bank. Of course, there were dwelling 
houses—not many, for most of the merchants of 
Red Bank were domiciled above their stores, and 
when the merchants were disposed of there were 
not many other residents of the little town to be 
housed. For Red Bank was a “cow town,” a very 
busy, lively, and roistering town in the fall when 
the beef from thousands of square miles of range 
was being rounded up and loaded from its ship- 


30 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


ping corrals, and at all other times a very quiet 
and unassuming little town, indeed. 

A bronzed man with a grizzled beard who had 
been leaning against the little building in conversa¬ 
tion with the station agent, stepped forward with 
a peculiar hitching gait. Connie’s glance took in 
the details, of bowed legs, roll brimmed Stetson, 
and keen gray eyes. 

“Was you lookin’ for someone in particular?” 
the man asked. 

“Why, yes,” answered the boy. “I wired Bob 
Harmon, the foreman of the Round Seven Bar 
ranch, to meet me here.” 

“Gosh all fishhooks!” exclaimed the man. 
“Then you are the new owner of the Round 
Seven!” 

“One of them,” grinned the boy. “Were you 
expecting me? You aren’t Bob Harmon, are you? ” 

“No, I ain’t Bob. Townsend’s my name— 
Charlie Townsend—Two Dot Townsend they call 
me on account of my brand, which I’m the owner 
of the Circle Two Dot outfit over on People’s 
Creek, about thirty miles northeast of the Round 
Seven.” 

“Glad to know you,” acknowledged Connie, 



Two Dot Townsend 


31 


extending his hand. “My name’s Morgan— 
Connie Morgan. But I wonder where Harmon is? 
Maybe he didn’t get my wire.” 

“Yes, he got it all right,” answered the other. 
“He was headin’ for town yesterday afternoon an’ 
got to my place jest as I was pullin’ out myself. 
I had business here an’ they wasn’t no use putting 
two teams over the road, special when they’re 
heavy as they are now with the snow meltin’, so 
I told him if he’d stay there an’ help the boys finish 
up the new horse corral, I’d fetch you out an’ he 
could take you on from there. But I wasn’t sort 
of expectin’ no—that is, I figured, the new owner 
of the Round Seven would be an older man, some¬ 
how. Not that it ain’t a fine thing,” he hastened 
to add, “for a youngster to be goin’ into business 
for himself, but, somehow the Round Seven—” 
The man did not finish the sentence, and Connie 
noted that his brow was slightly puckered. 

“What’s the matter with the Round Seven!” 
he asked. 

“I wish I owned it,” answered the man, eva¬ 
sively. “She’d ort to be a blame good outfit. 
But, we c’n talk while we drive. We better pull 
out soon as we get a bite to eat or we won’t be 


32 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

home in time fer supper—it’ll crowd them cayuses 
the way it is, with the trail heavy in spots. I told 
them barn dogs to have the harness on agin the 
train pulled out.” 

Connie reached for his suit case, but Two Dot 
shook his head: “Leave yer war bag an’ bed roll 
here an’ we’ll swing around an’ pick ’em up,” he 
advised, “an’ then we’ll hit the trail.” 

Together they made their way across a muddy, 
deep-rutted flat and gained the wooden sidewalk. 
As they passed along the street Connie took in the 
details of the little cow town; four or five general 
stores, a bank, two pool rooms, a barber shop, 
a harness and saddle store, a wide-doored building 
whose sign proclaimed “LIVERY, BOARDING, 
AND FEED,” two restaurants, a hotel, and a 
miscellaneous assortment of buildings of lesser 
importance. Past the hotel Two Dot led, and 
turned in a couple of doors farther on where the 
sign read “HOP WING, RESTAURANT & 
LAUNDRY.” 

The two hung their hats upon pegs provided for 
the purpose, and washed their hands at a little 
built-in sink in a rear corner of the room. Then 
they seated themselves at a small wooden table 





Two Dot Townsend 


33 


as the proprietor shuffled noiselessly in. ‘ ‘ Mo ’nin’, 
Missa Two Dot, what you goin’ eat?” 

“Hello, Hop! Beefsteak, an* I want it rar’, an’ 
fried spuds-” 

“Dinna no leady yet—on’y sho’t o’da, now.” 

“Fry up a half dozen aigs an’ a slab of ham, 
then, an’ a cup of coffee, an’ a couple of pieces of 
pie, an’ hurry up about it. What’s yourn?” The 
last to Connie. 

“The same,” answered the boy, and the China¬ 
man shuffled into the kitchen at the rear from 
whence presently came a great sizzling and the 
odor of frying ham. 

“I always eat to the Chinee’s place,” explained 
Two Dot. “It’s cleaner than what the hotel is, 
though the women claims he squirts water out of 
his mouth to wet down the clothes when he’s 
ironin’ ’em. But I don’t wear no b’iled shirts 
myself, so let him squirt all he wants to, jest so 
he keeps it out of the vittles.” 

Connie was about to reopen the question of the 
Round Seven, when the Chinaman appeared 
bearing two plates heaped high with ham and eggs. 
Two cups of steaming coffee followed, and then 
two plates containing two pieces of pie each. Two 



34 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


Dot glanced at the pie, and swallowing a huge 
mouthful of fried egg, he pointed to the plate in 
disgust: 

“Since when you begun to cut a pie five ways?” 
he asked. “I didn’t order no shavin’ of pie. What 
I want is two pieces! The way to cut a pie is 
straight acrost the middle both ways. You c’n 
lay off yer pie with a pair of dividers fer short¬ 
horns an’ pilgrims if you want to, but me—I want 
two four-piece cuts—sabe?” 

The Chink smiled broadly. “Alle light, Missa 
Two Dot. Loo ol’ customa. Loo alle light.” He 
removed the offending pieces and returned a 
moment later with the plates upon each of which 
reposed the half of a pie. 

From the restaurant, the two picked their way 
through the mud to the feeding stable across the 
street, and a moment later the hostlers were hook¬ 
ing up a team of rangy sorrels to a light spring 
wagon. Two Dot climbed in and gathered up the 
reins, and Connie seated himself beside him. The 
horses, fresh from a long night’s rest, danced and 
chafed at the bit, as the wagon rolled down the 
wooden apron that led to the street. It was but the 
work of a moment for the boy to swing the suit 



Two Dot Townsend 


35 

case and bed roll into the back of the vehicle, and 
with a word from Two Dot to the team they were 
off. The wheels sank to the hubs in the mud as they 
traversed the length of the street. It was not quite 
so bad as they emerged onto the flats in front of 
the shipping corrals, for there Two Dot swung 
them from the trail and pulled out onto the sodden 
grass. Here the trail itself was almost obliterated, 
for every one else who had traveled the road since 
spring had set in had done the same thing, with 
the result that the flat had all the appearance of a 
plowed field. All tracks narrowed into the trail 
again at the farther side of the flat, and for a mile 
or more, until the red iron bridge that spanned 
Milk River was crossed, the boy found himself 
holding on for dear life as the wheels would drop 
suddenly into a bottomless chuck hole and emerge 
dropping huge chunks of gray alkali mud from 
spokes and felloes. A short distance beyond the 
river the trail slanted upward to the bench whose 
rims formed a skyline three or four hundred feet 
higher than the floor of the valley. The trail 
followed the windings of a deep coulee, dry nor¬ 
mally, but now a rushing torrent of snow water, 
through which the horses floundered once or twice 


36 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

to their bellies. The bench gained, the trail be¬ 
came almost dry, and the sorrels struck into a 
brisk trot that sent volleys of mud from the 
whirling wheels. 

“She’ll be good goin’ now, till we hit the moun¬ 
tains,” opined Two Dot, “an’ then we won’t have 
no mud to speak of, only soggy snow, but we’ll 
waller through all right. How do you like the looks 
of the country?” 

Connie’s eyes swept the level bench which termi¬ 
nated nearly fifty miles away in three small ranges 
of mountains. Except on the mountain slopes 
only an occasional patch of snow was visible, and 
the bench stretched away brown and bare and 
ugly. 

“Where are the ranches? And where are the 
cattle ? ” inquired the boy. ‘ ‘ Isn’t this cattle range ? 
And Kobuk said the nesters were building cabins 
and fencing all the creeks.” 

“They ain’t many cattle between the Bear Paws 
an’ Milk River,” explained Two Dot. “They’re 
mostly sheep, an’ this here is summer range. They 
winter ’em in the mountains. There’s ranches 
enough, though. You can’t see ’em because they 
are all down in the coulees. Everything’s built in 


Two Dot Townsend 


37 


the coulees an’ crick bottoms in this country, for 
to get shelter from the wind, an’ to git the hay 
land under ditches. Nothin’ grows here except 
prickly pears, an’ sage, an’ buffalo grass without 
irrigation. Between here an’ the mountains, as 
wide as you c’n see, you’re lookin’ right over 
the top of prob’ly fifty ranches. Them mountains 
to the left is the Little Rockies, the ones straight 
in front, south, is the Bear Paws, an’ them further 
ones to the right is the Highwoods. My outfit 
lays straight ahead acrost two divides, on People’s 
Crick, an’ yourn lies thirty miles further on an’ a 
little to the right, on Eagle Crick. You’re acrost 
two or three more divides beyond me—the South 
Slope of the Bear Paws, an’ Eagle Crick empties 
into the Mizoo, that’s what they call the Missouri 
River, fer short, an’ People’s Crick flows northeast 
through the Gros Ventre Reservation [Note: 
Pronounced Grow Vaun] an’ then swings north an’ 
empties into Milk River. That’ll kind of give you 
the lay of the land. North of the Bear Paws it’s 
mostly sheep, an’ south an’ east of ’em it’s mostly 
cattle an’ horses, though the sheep’s beginnin’ to 
crowd in along the South Slope.” 

Two Dot ceased speaking, and for some time 


38 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

the horses jogged over the trail to the accompani¬ 
ment of the rattle of the wagon wheels. Connie 
had liked the man from the first, but more than 
that, he felt instinctively that if he would he could 
tell him a whole lot about the cattle business in 
general, and about the Round Seven Bar in par¬ 
ticular. He wanted to question him, but didn’t 
know how to begin. Townsend himself furnished 
the opening. ‘ ‘ I suppose yer pa’s pretty well fixed 
fer to set you up in business with an outfit like 
the Round Seven,” he ventured. “It must of set 
him back quite a figger.” 

“I haven’t any father,” the boy replied. “He 
died several years ago in Alaska, and he died poor. 
My partner and I bought this ranch to help Kobuk 
Jack out. The ranch broke Kobuk, and a long 
time ago he helped Waseche Bill out. Waseche’s 
my partner, and the best dog-goned man that 
walks on two legs, so it was up to us to see him 
through.” 

“Who’s this here Kobuk Jack?” asked Town¬ 
send. 

“Why, he’s the man that owned the ranch. We 
bought him out.” 

Oh, Wilson—Jack Wilson’s the name we knew 


Two Dot Townsend 


39 


him by. It’s too bad he couldn’t make a go of it. 
Everyone liked him, but he wasn’t no cow man. 
He was all fer prospectin’. He’d start out an’ nick 
away at the hills, an’ make long trips into the bad 
lands huntin’ gold, an’ left Harmon to run the 
outfit.” 

‘ ‘ Isn’t Harmon a good cow man ? ” asked the boy. 

“You bet he is,” assented the other, quickly. 
“A blame good cow man. An’ he’s smart, too. 
But it don’t make no difference how good a cow 
man anyone is, I don’t want no one but me 
runnin’ my own outfit. I ain’t say in’ nothin’, mind 
you, agin’ Harmon. Only personal, I don’t want 
no foreman whatever that owns a brand of his 
own.” 

“You mean he would be thinking about his 
outfit and wouldn’t give time enough to yours?” 

“Um-hum, either that, or he’d be thinkin’ about 
his own outfit an’ give too blame much time to 
mine,” Two Dot answered, dryly. Connie won¬ 
dered what the man meant, but refrained from 
questioning him further. 

“I’m goin’ to find out what’s the matter with 
the outfit, and put it on a paying basis,” observed 
the boy. 


40 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

Two Dot surveyed him quizzically. “Time you 
get through with it I judge you’ll find you set 
yerself quite a chore. But the Round Seven ort 
to be payin’, at that—an’ payin’ big.” 

“You call it the ‘Round Seven’,” said Connie, 
“and Kobuk called it the ‘Round Seven Bar.’ ” 

“That’s the brand—Round Seven Bar, left side 
—goes like this:” With the butt of his whip, 
Two Dot produced a running-iron facsimile of the 
brand on the muddy dashboard. “Around here 
we leave off the ‘Bar’ in speakin’ of it, to save 
time, same as my outfit is called the Two Dot, 
instead of the Circle Two Dot.” 

“Kobuk said the sheep men were crowding in 
on him, and that the rustlers were stealing a lot 
of his calves,” ventured the boy. 

“Yup,” answered Townsend. “I heard the 
Round Seven wasn’t puttin’ their irons on as 
many calves as they’d ort. An’ there is consider¬ 
able nesters along the cricks close around the out¬ 
fit. Them’s some of the things you’ve got on yer 
hands to figger about.” After a moment of silence 
he observed, “Course it ain’t none of my business, 
an’ speakin’ generally, I ain’t no hand to horn in 
on other folks’s, but you must of struck it pretty 


Two Dot Townsend 


4i 

lucky up there in Alaska to of made enough 
money to buy up the Round Seven.” 

Connie smiled. “Yes, we did strike it lucky. 
My partner is a wonderful mining man, and he 
runs the outfit. It was fun when we were getting 
started, when we didn’t know whether or not we 
were going to make a go of it, and all the odds were 
against us, but after things came our way and she 
got to running smoothly, I got tired of it. So Wa- 
seche stays in Ten Bow and runs things while I’m 
mostly chasing off on side issues, like this cattle 
business. I’d never make an office miner. I like 
action.” 

“Well, by the Belled Buzzard of Bejax!” snorted 
Two Dot, “you’re goin’ to find out you’ve bought 
into action enough, time you’ve got the Round 
Seven back to where she belongs! Yer in a rough 
strip of country over there on the South Slope; 
what with the mountains on one side, an’ Bad 
Lands on the other, she’s rough, in more ways 
than one. If you keep yer eyes open an’ yer mouth 
shet, an’ yer six-gun handy, you might put it 
over. But, it’s a man’s job, an’ it’s goin’ to be 
interestin’ to see what you do with it.” 


CHAPTER IV 


BOB HARMON 

Mile after mile the horses trotted along the 
trail that stretched interminably across the bench 
with its monotony of dry buffalo grass. Conver¬ 
sation lagged, and resumed. The mountains 
loomed ever nearer, until the trail slanted sharply 
upward in the ascent of Tiger Ridge, the long high 
spur that is the northernmost reach of the Bear 
Paws. An hour’s brisk travel along the wind¬ 
blown crest of the ridge, and they were in the 
mountains proper, the horses floundering and 
plunging through sodden drifts or trotting briskly 
over the wind-swept stretches. The sun set as 
they crossed the Snake Creek divide. They were 
beyond the stage trail, now, and the going was 
much heavier. 

The last seven miles took an hour and a half 

to accomplish, and darkness had set in when the 

horses turned wearily into a long barbed wire lane 

42 


Bob Harmon 


43 


that led to a dark clump of lodgepole pine on a 
little plateau of the People’s Creek valley. Lights 
glowed dully from among the pines, and Two Dot 
pulled up with a loud “ Whoa!” before a low ranch 
house of logs. The door of the bunk house beyond 
the main house opened, and a ranch hand hurried 
to take the horses, as Two Dot jumped lightly to 
the ground and led the way into the house. 

“Well, for land sakes!” greeted “Ma” Town¬ 
send when introductions were over. “An’ you 
expect to run the Round Seven, an’ you jest a 
boy?” 

Connie laughed. “That’s what I came down 
here for, and it’s up to me to make good.” 

“Well, good luck to you. But, I wouldn’t want 
to send a boy of mine over among them—” she 
halted abruptly at a glance from her husband, and 
continued, lamely, “among them bad lands an’ 
snow drifts. But set down to the table. Supper’s 
all ready, an’ I expect you’re ready for it. Bob 
Harmon jest come from the bunk house, but I 
told him to go back there till after you’d et. 
There’ll be plenty of time to talk to Bob, after, 
an’ I told him you wouldn’t be pullin’ out for the 
Round Seven to-night, nohow. Plenty of time 


44 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

in the mornin’, an’ with them half-broke broncs 
he’s got, you’ll travel better by daylight. An’ you 
won’t have to unroll your bed, because we’re 
always ready fer a stopper or two. It’s quite a 
ways between ranches an’ folks can’t always get 
to where they’re goin’ agin’ night comes.” 

Supper over, Mrs. Townsend busied herself in 
the kitchen and Connie and Two Dot drew up to 
the stove. There was a noisy stamping of feet upon 
the little porch, the door opened, and a pudgy, 
round-faced man of perhaps thirty, stepped into 
the room, jerking the Stetson from his head as he 
closed the door behind him. 

“This here’s Bob Harmon,” introduced Two 
Dot. “Bob, let me make you acquainted with yer 
new boss.” 

The man stared for a second in astonishment, 
and stepping forward, he extended a soft, damp 
palm. “Glad to meet you, Mr/ Morgan,” he 
greeted, with a broad smile. “I got yer telegram 
all right, but I suppose Two Dot, here, told you 
how we figgered it wasn’t no use puttin’ two teams 
over the trail. I suppose it’s all right!” 

The boy noted that the speaker was eyeing him 
keenly. He nodded. “Of course it’s all right. 


Bob Harmon 


45 


And, there’s another little matter that we might 
as well get right while we’re about it. Up where 
I come from we don’t call people ‘Mister.’ Connie 
Morgan is my name, and you can use either one, 
or both—but, not ‘Mister Morgan,’ please.” 

Harmon grinned. “I might of lcnow’d that, too. 
Wilson told me when he come back fer his stuff 
an’ his family, that he’d sold out to an Alasky 
party—come near goin’ up there myself, me an’ 
another feller, time of the big rush—but, seemed 
like Wilson said this party’s name is Bill 
somethin’.” 

“Waseche Bill,” supplied Connie. “He’s my 
partner.” 

“That was the name, an’ accordin’ to Wilson’s 
tell this here Bill whirls a big loop up where he 
lives. He did mention somethin’ about a pardner, 
too—but I kind of wasn’t lookin’ fer no—that is, 
I mean not n<j> man quite as young as what you 
look to be. Not that you ain’t old enough, at 
that,” he hastened to add, “ ’cause I’ve saw kids 
’fore now that made good cow hands ’fore their 
voice changed. But, somehow, from what he told 
me about this here Bill party I kind of looked fer 
him an’ his pardner to be sort of old fellers.” 


46 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Well, not so old but what we’re still able to 
get around,” grinned Connie, and Two Dot joined 
in the laugh that followed. 

“Shall I hook up the team?” asked Harmon, 
“or, was you figurin’ on beddin’ down here?” 

“We’ll stay here to-night and pull out in the 
morning,” answered the boy, and a few minutes 
later Harmon withdrew to the bunk house. 

“You look sleepy,” suggested Two Dot, after 
an hour of desultory conversation. “I guess you’re 
like me, I never could git a night’s sleep on one 
of them sleepin’ cars.” 

“I haven’t slept much for the last two or three 
nights,” agreed the boy. “I can’t sleep on the 
train, either, and the last night out the boat 
rocked and pitched so in a storm that I could 

hardly stick in my berth. I guess I will turn 

• >> 
in. 

Two Dot showed him to his room, and a few 
minutes later as the boy snuggled between warm 
blankets, he wondered whether he had only imag¬ 
ined it, or had a swift gleam of satisfaction fol¬ 
lowed the look of surprise in Bob Harmon’s eyes 
at the moment of their introduction? Connie did 
not know. He did know, however, that there was 


Bob Harmon 


47 


something decidedly wrong with the Round Seven, 
and that it was up to him to straighten things out. 
Also, he fully realized that in all probability it was 
going to be a tough job, and he remembered the 
words of Big Dan McKeever, of the Mounted: 
“The reputation of bein’ a fool don’t hurt a man 
none, in fact, it’s the biggest asset he’s got—pro¬ 
vided he ain’t one.’’ With a smile, the boy turned 
over, and in two minutes was sound asleep. 

The drive to the Round Seven ranch next morn¬ 
ing was uneventful enough. The trail held insofar 
as possible to the wind-swept ridges which the half 
broken team of strawberry roans covered for the 
most part at a run, that was only checked by the 
deep drifts through which they plunged in crossing 
the snow-choked coulees to gain another wind¬ 
swept ridge. As they topped the divide that gave 
onto the South Slope, Connie gazed out over a 
broad plain cut and scarred by deep gulches and 
coulees whose perpendicular sides showed black 
and ugly in contrast to the great patches of drifted 
snow. Far to the southward a range of mountains 
showed, their summits rearing white and clean-cut 
against the grey of the clouded sky. 

“The bad lands,’’ vouchsafed Harmon, indicat- 


48 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

ing the plain, “an’ them is the Judith Mountains 
over acrost the Mizoo.” 

“Why do they call ’em bad lands?” asked 
the boy. 

“ ’Cause that’s what they be. Nothin’ but rock, 
an’ mud cracks, an’ pizen springs, an’ rattlesnakes, 
an’ outlaws.” 

“Don’t the cattle go in there?” 

“Naw, nothin’ but horses. They ain’t only 
about six or seven waterholes that’s fit to drink 
out of, an’ most of them runs dry along to’ard 
the heel of the summer. Horses can pick up a 
livin’ on the scatterin’ of bunch grass, an’ they 
kin travel a long ways to water. They ain’t 
enough feed to run cattle in there, an’ if they was 
they wouldn’t be enough water. The cow stock 
uses along the aidge of the mountains, an’ on the 
flats between the Bear Paws an’ the Little Rockies, 
an’ west over onto Big an’ Little Sandy.” 

At the foot of the long descent from the divide 
the trail swerved abruptly to the westward and 
wound in and out among the foothills, crossing the 
heads of innumerable coulees until at last it swung 
into the broader valley of Eagle Creek, which it 
crossed and recrossed as it threaded its way through 


Bob Harmon 


49 


groves of cottonwoods and willows. Emerging 
suddenly from a thicket of cottonwood, Harmon 
swung the team up a steep bank, and Connie found 
himself in the dooryard of the Round Seven. 
“Here we be!” exclaimed Harmon, as he pulled 
the team to a stand, and filling his lungs, sent forth 
a yell that rang far down the valley: “Y-e-e-o-ow! 
Come an’ git ’em, or I’ll turn ’em loose!” 


CHAPTER V 


AT THE ROUND SEVEN 

In answer to the call, the door at the rear of the 
low log house was thrown open and half a dozen 
cow punchers, some in chaps and others with their 
overalls shoved into the tops of high-heeled boots, 
swarmed out. All were bare headed and coatless, 
and Connie was conscious of the swift, appraising 
glance of each pair of eyes as they swarmed about 
the horses. Before the boy could alight the team 
was unhitched and on its way to the barn in care 
of two of the boys, while the rest waited in awk¬ 
ward expectancy. 

“Boys, this here is the new boss,” introduced 

Harmon, “name’s Morgan, an’ you ain’t to lift 

it by the handle. Looks like a kid, an’ new to the 

cow country, but I mistrust he ain’t no pilgrim, at 

that.” Connie smiled broadly as he jumped to 

the ground, and the boys grinned sheepishly. 

Harmon went on with the introductions. “That 

50 


At the Round Seven 


51 


Inombre closest to you is Tex Rutledge, him havin’ 
be’n run off his native heath, as the feller says, he 
hits for Montana. The next one to him is Kid 
Owens, another one which the State of Texas got 
to little fer to hold him. The old one is Alex 
McLaurie, that kin tell a cow from a horse seven 
days in the week incloodin’ Sundays. Mac, he’s 
an old timer, havin’ be’n found down on the 
Yallerstone herdin’ horses way back in eighteen- 
forty when Lewis an’ Clarke discovered the coun¬ 
try. An’ the last one is Milk River Bill. Bill an’ 
Tex is the top broncho twisters of the outfit. They 
was both rocked in the saddle of a rough string 
when they was babies, an’ they ain’t neither one 
of ’em ever reached down fer a handful of leather 
sence.” 

The four advanced, still grinning, and four hands 
were diffidently thrust out. Connie grasped each 
hand in turn. 

“Glad to know yuh,’’ said Tex. 

“Glad to know yuh,” muttered Kid Owens. 

“Glad to know yuh,” repeated McLaurie. 

“Glad to know yuh,” echoed Milk River Bill. 

Connie smiled: “We’ll know each other a lot 
better before long, I hope,” he said. 


52 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Go on in an finish yer dinner, an’ tell the cook 
we’re here,” advised Harmon, and turned to 
Connie: “While he’s settin’ on ourn I’ll show you 
the house. Not that they’s such a lot of it, but 
you might’s well see what they is.” 

The two men who had taken the horses were 
returning from the barn and Harmon paused: 
“Might’s well make a job of it an’ git acquainted 
all to onct.” He waited till the two came up: 

“This here’s the new owner,” he explained, 
“name’s Morgan, without no Mister onto it.” The 
two paused and Harmon pointed to a lanky man 
with a long, sallow face: “I’ll make you acquainted 
with Tombstone, so called on account he’s plumb 
doleful minded an’ full of forbodin’. Other name’s 
Traxel, but it ain’t of no importance. 

“ Glad to know yuh,” uttered Tombstone, eye¬ 
ing the boy sombrely. 

“The other one,” continued Harmon, is Canary 
Struthers, so referred to on account it’s his habit 
to bust out into yodlin’ without no more excuse 
than what a bronc needs to pitch.” 

“Glad to know yuh,” quoth Canary, and when 
the handshaking was over, the two disappeared 
through the door. 


At the Round Seven 


53 


Harmon led the way to the front of the house 
and up the two steps to a small porch from which 
a snow drift, that had evidently lain deep all 
winter, had recently been shovelled. The door 
opened directly into a large, square room whose 
walls were adorned with calendars of other years 
brightly lithographed and blazonly flaunting the 
names of mercantile companies, banks, and 
Chicago commission houses. The calendars, three 
or four chairs, the stove, and a single table con¬ 
stituted the entire furnishing of the room. 

Opening a door, the foreman disclosed a smaller 
room in which was a bed and a dresser. “Wilsons 
slep’ in there, an’ et in here,” he explained. “The 
next room to this is where the kids slep’, an’ they’s 
a couple of rooms beyond that’s handy fer to put 
up stoppers. They’s a lot of junk in the kids’ room 
that Wilson left here, saddles, bridles, chaps, an’ 
the like. I expect you can pick you out an outfit 
amongst it, except boots—hisn wouldn’t never 
fit you.” 

“Yes, Kobuk told me about the boots. I got 
a pair in Seattle.” 

Another door opened and a man entered, his 
arms bare to the elbows. A white flour sack 


54 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

depending from a string tied about his middle 
served for an apron, and in his hands he carried 
a plate, a cup and saucer, a knife, a fork, and a 
spoon. Pulling the table out from the wall, he 
proceeded to set the dishes upon it, and was about 
to disappear through the door, when Harmon 
called to him: “Hey, Wait, this here’s the new 
boss. Morgan’s his name, an’ he’s signified that 
it’s bad medicine to say Mister.” He turned to 
Connie: 

“That’s Walt Jones, the cook. He’s cooked on 
cow outfits from Mexico to the line, an’ when it 
comes to dishin’ up a good feed of vittles, he’s got 
’em all skinned.” 

“Glad to know yuh,” opined the cook, imper¬ 
sonally, and wiping his hand upon his apron, took 
the boy’s extended hand in a firm grip. 

“What’s the idea of the lone place at the table?” 
asked Connie. 

“That’s yourn. Wilsons et in here.” 

“Where do the rest of you eat?” 

“The men’s grub house is back, jest off the 
kitchen.” 

“Are you full up out there? Isn’t there room 
for one more?” 


At the Round Seven 


55 


The cook grinned: “Room for twenty-two to 
set down to onct,” he replied, “an’ they wasn’t 
only eight of us till you come.” 

“Well just fix me up a place out there, then,” 
said the boy, “and we’ll all eat together.” 

Jones nodded, and picking up the dishes, stepped 
through the door, closing it behind him. 

“Boss goin’ to fodder along of the rest of us,” 
he announced, to the boys who had resumed 
their interrupted meal. “Bob, he’ll lose out on the 
head of the table. Shove down there one space, 
an’ I’ll put him next to the boss.” 

“Ain’t stuck up none,” commented Tex, in a 
voice of approval. 

“Huh,” sneered Milk River Bill, “prob’ly one 
of these here hombres that’s afraid someone’ll say 
somethin’ he don’t hear. Reason why he’s feedin’ 
in here is so he can catch him an earful.” 

Tex grinned an irritating grin: “What you got 
to talk about that ain’t fit fer the boss to hear? 
Me—he’s welcome to listen to all the gems of 
thought that trickles off my chin.” 

“They ain’t nothin’ never trickled off’n it yet 
that was worth listenin’ to,” retorted Milk River. 
“Personal, I’d ruther the coffee coolers stayed 



56 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

on their own side of the fence, an’ left us on 
ourn.” 

“Yeh,” drawled Tex, “but the coffee coolers 
is the ones that makes the rules, so what you think 
about it don’t carry no heft, one way or another.” 

The cook’s head was thrust in from the kitchen: 
“Cut out that rowin’ in there, ’fore I rattle yer 
skulls together! If youse two wants to go to war, 
go outside.” The two thus admonished lapsed into 
silence, for the cook was an autocrat whose 
authority was unquestioned within his own do¬ 
main, and one glance at the huge forearms was 
generally sufficient to give color to that authority. 

Connie and the foreman entered and took their 
places and the meal was finished in silence, the 
boys pushing back from the table and leaving the 
room as soon as their plates were empty. 


CHAPTER VI 


LEARNING THE ROPES 

“What’s doing on the ranch this time of year?” 
asked the boy, when the last of the hands had 
departed. 

“Nothin’, to speak of, right now,” answered 
Harmon. “We run in a wild bunch about a week 
ago an’ Tex an’ Milk River are breakin’ about a 
dozen head for the remuda. Kid Owens an’ 
McLaurie are ridin’ the range throwin’ weak stuff 
into the hospital bunch, an’ Tombstone an’ 
Canary are pitchin’ hay to ’em. Tombstone an’ 
Canary ain’t riders, they’re ranch hands.’ 

Connie laughed: “I suppose it will all be per¬ 
fectly clear to me in a day or two, but the fact is 
I don’t know much more than I did before you 
told me. What is a ‘wild bunch’ and how do you 
‘run them in’, and what is a ‘remuda?’ ” 

“Why, a wild bunch is a bunch of horses that’s 

runnin’ the range an’ ain’t be’n broke yet—mares, 

57 


58 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

an’ young saddle stock. We run a bunch of ’em 
into the corral an’ cut out the three-year-olds an’ 
turn the rest loose. Then we go ahead an’ break 
’em. The remuda is the outfit of saddle horses we 
carry along on the round-up. We use about a 
dozen riders on the round-up, an’ each one has 
from eight to a dozen horses in his string. Some 
horses gets old, an’ some gets stove up every year, 
so we have to break new ones every spring to 
take their place.” 

“That’s a lot of horses,” exclaimed the boy. 
“The barn don’t look big enough to hold them.” 

Harmon laughed: “They ain’t nothin’ kep’ in 
the barn but a few work horses, an’ a drivin’ 
team, an’ three or four winter horses apiece. The 
rest of ’em’s out on the range. We’ll start the 
horse round-up mebbe to-morrow an’ run ’em into 
the big field an’ hay ’em till it’s time for the calf 
round-up. We aim to pull the wagons about the 
tenth of May, soon as the new grass gets strong 
enough to keep the horses goin’.” 

“What do you mean by pulling the wagons? 
You see, I’m green as anyone can be.” 

“The wagons is the round : up. There’s the cook 
wagon, an’ the bed wagon, an’ wherever they set 


Learning the Ropes 


59 


up, there’s where the round-up camps. You’ll get 
onto it all pretty quick. I s’pose I’d be the same 
way if I was to horn into a gold camp up in 
Alasky. They’s tricks in all trades, as the feller 
says, but onct you get onto ’em they’re easy as 
slidin’ off a haystack. 

“D’you ever ride any!” asked Harmon, as he 
pushed back his chair, and fumbled in his pocket 
for a toothpick. 

“Never was on a horse in my life ,” 1 answered 
the boy, “but I can learn.” 

“Sure, you can learn, an’ if you’d like to tackle 
it this afternoon we can kind of look the place 
over. I want to ride through the hospital bunch 
anyhow an’ see how they’re cornin’.” 

“I can’t learn any younger,” smiled the boy. 
“I’d like to go. My boots are in my bed-roll, I’ll 
step out and get them.” 

“They’re in yer room,” interrupted the cook. 
“I had Canary carry yer stuff in.” 

“While you’re gettin’ ’em on, I’ll rustle you an 
outfit out of that bunch of junk in the other room,” 
said Harmon, and when Connie, teetering un- 

1 In the northern division o^ the Mounted in which Connie 
served there are no horses—only dogs. 


60 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

steadily in his new high heeled boots stepped from 
his room he found Harmon in the living room 
engaged in coiling a rope which he fastened by a 
strap to the right side of a big stock saddle. Pick¬ 
ing up a pair of black angora chaparajos, he handed 
them to Connie, “Get into these chaps an’ here’s 
your spurs.” 

The boy drew on the chaps, fastened the buckles 
of his spurs, and followed Harmon who had picked 
up the saddle, hung a bridle on the horn, and 
with a blanket in his other hand led the way to 
the stable. As Connie walked along behind he 
realized the reason for the peculiar, shuffling gait 
he had noticed in the men of the cow country. It 

was the high heeled boots that threw them far 

\ 

out of balance. “I sure would hate to trail very 
far in these boots,” said the boy as Harmon threw 
open the stable door. 

The foreman laughed: “They ain’t meant fer 
walkin’. A cowhand don’t do no walkin’ that he 
kin git out of. It’s plumb redic’lus sometimes. 
Why, I’ve saw a cow puncher chase a cayuse half 
a mile around a field a-foot an’ ketch him up an’ 
saddle him just to ride forty rod to where he was 
goin’.” 


Learning the Ropes 61 

“But wouldn’t it be just as easy to wear some¬ 
thing on your feet that you could walk in, too?” 

’Twouldn’t be safe,’’ explained Harmon. 
“You see, if it wasn’t fer them high heels, if yer 
horse got to ra’rin’, an’ pitchin’, yer foot might 
slip on through yer stirrup, an’ then if you got 
throw’d, er yer horse went down with you, you’d 
be hung up an’ drug to death, less’n you was quick 
enough, an’ lucky enough to draw yer gun an’ 
kill him first. Them high heels stickin’ down like 
they do ketches on the stirrup an’ holds yer foot 
from slippin’ through, an’ then agin, they’re 
handy if yer rope-handlin’ stock. You kin sink 
them heels into the ground an’ hold ’em, instead 
of bein’ drug all around the corral.’’ 

“The more a fellow knocks around,” replied the 
boy “the sooner he learns that there’s generally 
a good reason for doing things the way they are 
done in different parts of the country. And the 
quicker he learns to do them that way the easier 
he gets along.” 

“I expect that’s right,” admitted Harmon “I 
ain’t never be’n around none to speak of outside 
of the cow country. Be’n to Chicago quite a lot 
with beef, but I didn’t learn nothin’ of no account. 


62 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

except that it’s Gosh Almighty lonesome, an’ a 
long ways back to the open range.” Harmon led 
the way into the barn where a long row of horses 
stood munching hay in their stalls. “These is the 
winter saddle horses,” he explained. “The work 
horses an’ drivin’ team is in that other alley. 
The rest of the horses is out on the range. We keep 
four apiece of our top horses up an’ grain ’em in 
winter. They’s quite a lot of winter ridin’, what 
with ridin’ fences, an’ throwin’ stock onto water, 
an’ keepin’ ’em from pilin’ up agin’ the fences in a 
blizzard, an’ throwin’ the weak stuff in on hay.” 
He paused behind a coal black horse, and blanket 
in hand, entered the stall. “Whoa, Nigger!” he 
soothed, as the horse, stepped about restlessly. 
Connie watched with interest as the man, talking 
all the time, and avoiding any quick motions 
placed the blanket upon the horse’s back and 
smoothed it into place. 

“You’ve got to take it easy with these here 
cayuses,” he explained. “Nigger, here, he’s plumb 
gentle, an’ so is most all of these winter horses, 
but they git excited easy unless they’re handled 
right.” Picking up the saddle he threw a stirrup 
and the cinch back over the seat, swung it to the 


63 


Learning the Ropes 

horse’s back, and fitting it upon the blanket, 
pushed the seat clear, and reaching beneath the 
horse’s belly caught the cinch ring and drew it into 
place, explaining to the boy the use of the patent 
buckle that has superceded the old fashioned four- 
in-hand cinch knot which passed into the discards 
along with the double rig saddle. 

After bridling the horse, the foreman backed 
him out of the stall and led him out the door where 
he dropped the reins and entering the barn, re¬ 
appeared a moment later with a bay horse which 
he led by the halter to a point near the corral fence 
where his own outfit lay. 

“Won’t Nigger get away?” asked Connie, as 
the man proceeded to saddle his own mount. 

“No, they’re broke to stand when the reins is 
dropped. ‘Tyin’ ’em to the ground,’ we call it, 
an’ they’ll stand that way when they’d bust a pair 
of reins if they was tied to a fence or post. ” Placing 
his knee against the bay horse’s side, the man 
pulled on the latigo strap with all his might: 
“Quit that, you old son-of-a-gun!” he cried, and 
a moment later turned to Connie with a grin: 
“You got to watch out fer that trick,” he warned, 
“about half the cayuses git wise to it. They swell 


64 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

up on you when yer cinchin’ ’em, then when you 
git on yer cinch is loose, an’ yer blanket works 
back, an’ first thing you know you’ve got a galded 
horse. It’s loose-cinches, not tight ones that 
hurts horses, an’ men, too. ’Cause sometimes it’s 
loose enough so the saddle turns.” The man led 
his horse over beside the black. “These horses is 
gentle so you could climb up onto ’em anyway,” 
he said, “but they’s plenty of ’em in the remuda 
that ain’t, so you might’s well learn how to git on 
an’ off. Watch me.” The man swung lightly into 
the saddle and back to the ground. “See how it 
works. It’s the easiest way with gentle horses—an’ 
the only way with bad ones. Always go to a horse’s 
head an’ git on from in front, and always on the 
left side. Take yer bridle reins in yer left hand, an’ 
ketch ’em up short agin the horse’s mane. With a 
real bad horse you grab the cheek strap along with 
the reins to keep him from rar’in away from you. 
Turn yer stirrup around with yer right hand an’ 
stick yer left foot in it. Grab the horn with yer 
right hand, an’ swing on. When you git a little 
practice, the worse a horse jerks back, an’ rar’s, 
the quicker he lands you in the saddle. Gittin’ 
off, you swing right back the way you got on. 



Connie found himself holding on for dear life as the wheels would drop suddenly into a bottomless chuck 

hole and emerge, dropping huge chunks of gray Alkali mud 






65 


Learning the Ropes 

Don’t never try to git on or off on the right hand 
side. The horses ain’t broke for it, an’ you might 
git hurt.” Connie followed the directions and was 
surprised with the ease with which he swung into 
the saddle. Harmon nodded approval, and mount¬ 
ing, led the way down the creek. “You’ll soon git 
on to the ridin’ part,” he said. “The main thing is 
to save yer horse all you kin. Ride on yer stirrups, 
an’ you won’t pound his back to pieces. An’ ride 
with a loose rein, onless you’ve got a pitchin’ horse. 
Then you got to keep him from sinkin’ his head. 

“These is the hay fields,” explained the fore¬ 
man, as he fastened a wire gate behind him, 
“they’s four of ’em on the crick under ditches 
that’s in alfalfa, an’ then we cut wild hay in the 
coulees. We aim to put up around five or six 
hundred ton a year, that winters the work horses 
an’ the winter saddle stock an’ feeds the hospital 
stuff. This here is what we call the ‘big pasture.’ 
That’s where we run the weak stuff in to feed ’em. 
There’s the boys now pitchin’ hay to ’em.” They 
rode up to where Canary and Tombstone were 
pitching hay from a wagon that was kept con¬ 
stantly in motion so that the cattle feeding behind 
the wagon were strung out in a long line. “Feed 


66 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


’em that way so they clean it all up,” explained 
the foreman. “If yer throw’d it in piles they’d git 
to crowdin’, an’ tromp a lot of it into the ground, 
an’ the weak ones wouldn’t git none. This is what 
we call the hospital bunch, old cows, an’ some 
yearlin’s that didn’t winter through good on the 
range, an’ some cows that’s near to the calvin’. 
We generally got three or four hundred head in 
here along to’ards spring. The boys ride the range 
an’ throws in the weak stuff, an’ rides the pasture 
an’ throws out them that’s picked up on the hay. 
We’ll swing out the west gate here an’ up onto the 
bench. We kin pull over onto the shoulder of 
that there butte an’ git a good look over the 
country. I kin show you from there just what 
yer up against. I s’pose you know that the 
Round Seven is a losin’ game?” 

“Yes,” answered Connie, as the horses travelled 
side by side up a coulee that led to the bench. 
“That’s what I came down here for—to find out 
what’s the matter. Kobuk Jack said it ought to 
pay, and pay big.” 

“Who?” 

“Why, Kobuk Jack—Jack Wilson, you called 
him down here—the man we bought out.” 


67 


Learning the Ropes 

“Oh, he did, eh? Well, he didn’t make it pay!” 
The man was looking straight ahead, and glancing 
sidewise. Connie saw that his eyes had narrowed 
in evident anger. The next moment, however he 
was smiling as he turned toward the boy. “This 
Wilson, he didn’t savvy the cattle business. But, 
at that, he’s right about the outfit ort to pay. 
Only it’s goin’ to cost an all-fired lot of money to 
make it pay.” 

“What’s the matter with it?” 

“Well, they’s quite a lot the matter. First off, 
there’s the nesters that’s come in an’ fenced off 
the water. Birch Crick an’ Eagle, below the Round 
Seven, an’ Beaver is gittin’ pretty well fenced. 
These here nesters would all have to be bought 
out, an’ they’re all holdin’ high. Then, we gen¬ 
erally finish off our beef stuff on the Injun Reser¬ 
vation, an’ the Injuns kills a lot of ’em.” 

“Don’t the Round Seven pay for pasturing on 
the Reservation?” 

“Sure. Fifty cents a head.” 

“Why don’t you collect damages, then, for the 
cattle the Indians kill?” 

“You can’t collect no damages agin’ the Gov¬ 
ernment,” answered Harmon. 


68 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“You can’t, eh?’’ answered the boy, “guess I’ll 
just look over that contract this evening.” 

Harmon squirmed uneasily in his saddle: “We 
never had no contract wrote out,” he said. “We 
jest paid over the money an’ turned in the beef.” 

4 4 Who did you pay it to ? ” 

“Major Hogan, the Injun Agent.” 

“Did you get a receipt?” 

“No. They ain’t no use of a receipt. Hogan, he 
ain’t a-goin’ to claim we didn’t pay him. An’ that’s 
all there is to it.” 

“How about the calves?” asked the boy, chang¬ 
ing the subject abruptly. “I understand the 
Round Seven isn’t branding the number of calves 
it ought to.” 

4 ‘Who says so?” asked Harmon, his eyes once 
more narrowing. 

“Kobuk Jack did.” 

“Look a-here, boss. I told you Wilson didn’t 
know nothin’ about cattle. If he says we ain’t 
brandin’ enough calves he’s off. He didn’t pay 
no attention to the ranch, nohow. He’d ruther 
be off in the bad lands peckin’ away at the rocks 
than stick around the outfit. I done all the runnin’ 
of the ranch, an’ I know the cow business, an’ I’m 



A moment later the muzzles of four rifles were thrust through four apertures in the sagebrush that 

loosely woven between the wires of the fence 






. Then froze in his tracks as he found himself staring into the muzzle of the boy’s 

service revolver 







6 9 


Learning the Ropes 

tellin’ you we brand all the calves that we git, 
except mebbe a few that the sage brushers git,” 

“Who are the sage brushers?” 

“Oh, a few rustlers that slips around through 
the sage brush an’ dobs their rope on a calf now an’ 
then. They git away with some stuff, all right, 
but you can’t ketch ’em at it. They’re pretty 
slick when it comes to calf stealin’.” 

They had reached the high elevation that gave 
a view of Eagle Creek and its feeders for miles. 
Harmon pointed out half a dozen small outfits: 
“There’s what’s on Eagle,” he said, “part cattle, 
an’ part sheep. An’ there’s more on the other 
cricks. Do you think you’ve got the money to 
buy ’em out?” 

The boy thought that he detected just a note 
of eagerness in the man’s words, and that the eyes 
that regarded him hinted at suppressed anxiety. 
He thought rapidly and after some moments’ delay 
during which he pretended to be studying the 
various outfits, he answered. “Yes I’ve got the 
money to buy out a hundred such outfits. By this 
time next year you won’t see any of them there.” 

There was no mistaking the genuine exultation 
in the other’s reply: “Well then, the Round Seven 


70 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


had ort to pick up considerable. It’s them nesters 
that’s be’n crampin’ it down. But, you better let 
me do yer dickerin’ fer you. If they know’d you’ve 
got the money to buy ’em out, they’ll shove up 
the price on you. They know they can’t put over 
no monkey business on me, an’ they know better’n 
to try it. I’ll stay along till fall so’s to see you git 
all straightened out. I aimed to quit this spring. 
Facts is, I’ve got me a little outfit together over 
on Shonkin an’ it’s gittin’ to where they’s a livin’ 
in it without me workin’ fer wages no more. But 
I got a man over there that kin look after it all 
right till fall, and then you kin git along without 
me, ’cause I’ll kind of break in Kid Owens fer to 
take my place.” 

“Thanks,” answered Connie, “I hope you will 
stay, and I think we’ll locate the trouble with the 
Round Seven long before fall.” 

During the homeward ride Connie was aware 
that more than once the foreman’s eyes were 
fixed upon him in a keen, sidewise glance. 


CHAPTER VII 


CONNIE MEETS A NEIGHBOR 

The following morning when Connie threw off 
his blankets and swung his feet to the floor beside 
his bed he emitted a startled grunt of surprise and 
pain. “What in thunder is the matter with me?” 
he muttered, as he rose gingerly to his feet, and 
stretched his arms above his head. Every muscle 
of his body from neck to heels was stiff and sore as 
though he had been pounded with a club. He 
dressed with an effort and seating himself on the 
edge of the bed, began laboriously to pull on his 
boots. 

“Come in!” he called, in answer to a knock, 
and the head and shoulders of the boss were thrust 
through the doorway. 

“How you feelin’?” asked Harmon with a grin, 
as the boy leaned stiffly over to pull on his other 
boot. 

“Feeling! I feel like I’d fallen off the top of the 

71 


72 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

highest mountain in the world and hit a rock every 
ten feet all the way down.” 

The boss laughed: “Yup, I mistrusted you 
would. That’s what it does to you—ridin’ when 
you ain’t used to it. An’ they’s only one cure 
fer it—keep on tidin’. It’ll pretty near bust you 
in two to ride to-day, but you got to keep at it. 
After three or four days you’ll be able to ride all 
day an’ never know you done nothin’. 

“Breakfast’s ready, an’ after breakfast me an’ 
Kid Owens, an’ old Alex, an’ Milk River is goin’ 
to ride after horses. It’ll take mebbe a week to git 
’em all gathered, an’ if I was you I’d kind of hang 
around till we git back. Tex, he’s goin’ to stay 
here to look after the hospital bunch an’ the ranch 
hands will keep on throwin’ ’em hay. You better 
ride a little every day. Tex, he’ll saddle up fer 
you till you git on to it.” 

“Why can’t I ride for horses, too?” 

“Holy Smoke! Ridin’ after horses is the hardest 
ridin’ they is. It ain’t no job fer anyone that ain’t 
broke in to it. We’ll be foggin’ it all over the 
range from daylight till dark an’ it would jest 
nach’ly pound a pilgrim to pieces. No, you got to 
git broke in easy. Ride a spell in the forenoon, 


Connie Meets a Neighbor 73 

an’ agin in the afternoon an’ rest up between times. 
You’ll git plenty of ridin’ this summer, but you 
ain’t in no shape fer a hard ride, now.” 

“I guess you’re right,” answered the boy as he 
rose to his feet and hobbled stiffly to the dining 
room. 

After breakfast Connie found Nigger standing 
saddled and bridled in the horse corral, and despite 
the protest of wracked muscles, he led him out, 
mounted, and headed for the open range. 

A half hour later he pulled up at almost the 
identical spot from which he and Harmon had 
surveyed the valley upon the previous day. Three 
or four miles down the creek he could see the 
nearest of the two sheep outfits that the foreman 
had pointed out. “Might just as well go down and 
get acquainted with my neighbours,” he muttered, 
“that is, if I don’t fall apart before I get there.” 

Nigger picked his way slowly down the steep 
trail that slanted from the butte, and holding to 
the bench in order to avoid dismounting to open 
the gates of the hay pastures, Connie proceeded 
down the creek. 

A wide-spread grey patch appeared in the dis¬ 
tance, a patch that seemed to be slowly moving 


74 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


and shifting about over the dead brown grass of 
the range. As the boy drew nearer he saw that the 
grey patch was a band of sheep, and that a man 
on foot and a dog were following them. He sur¬ 
veyed the feeding sheep with interest. Hundreds 
and hundreds of them spread out over the bench 
and threaded their way among the sodden snow¬ 
drifts of the coulees. Careful not to disturb them, 
he circled widely and pulling his horse to a stand 
beside the nester, called out a cheerful greeting. 

The sheep-man eyed him with a hostile glare: 
“Why didn’t you ride right through ’em?” he 
asked, truculently. “You’ll be gittin’ fired first 
thing you know, if Harmon catches you bustin’ 
orders.” 

“What do you mean?” asked the boy, in sur¬ 
prise. 

“Mean! You’re ridin’ a Round Seven horse, 
ain’t you? I mean why didn’t you try to scatter 
them sheep, or turn ’em back on me, like the 
rest does?” 

“I didn’t know you wanted them scattered.” 

The man laughed nastily. “Harmon wants ’em 
scattered. You’re workin’ fer the Round Seven, 
ain’t you?” 


Connie Meets a Neighbor 75 

Connie hesitated only for an instant, “Yes,” 
he answered, “I’m working for the Round Seven. 
But, what’s that got to do with it? Those sheep 
don’t belong to the Round Seven, do they?” 

The sheep-man eyed the boy in astonishment. 
The look of hostility faded from his eyes, and he 
drew a step closer: “Say, kid,” he said, “you’re a 
pilgrim, all right, I know’d it by the way you ride, 
an’ by the way you swung out fer them sheep. 
I don’t know who you be, nor where you come 
from, nor why you throw’d in with the Round 
Seven. But I do know that if you stick with that 
outfit you’ll learn every mean, ornery, crooked, an’ 
low-down trick there is in the cow business. When 
Bob Harmon gits through with you, you’ll mebbe 
be slick enough to start you an outfit on nothin’, 
the way he done. He busted Mr. Wilson, an’ he’ll 
bust the new owner. I hear he’s another miner 
from up around Alasky somewheres, an’ Harmon’ll 
bust him, too.” 

Connie grinned: “Maybe he’ll come down and 
learn the business and find out where the trouble 
is,” he suggested. 

“He couldn’t do it. Harmon’s too slick for ’em. 
Wilson, he was here, an’ Harmon robbed him blind 


76 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

right under his nose. What with stickin’ his own 
brand on as many Round Seven calves every year 
as he dares to, an’ bein’ in kahoots with a crooked 
commission outfit in Chicago, that sends in short 
weight returns to Wilson, an’ splits the rake-off 
with Harmon, an’ what with sellin’ hay to this 
here Wadell, down the crick an’ shovin’ the money 
in his pocket. No wonder it busted Wilson.” 

“Why didn’t you go to Wilson and tell him?” 
asked the boy. 

“A man’s supposed to mind his own business 
in this country,” he answered. “If I had, Wilson 
wouldn’t of believed me. Harmon had him fooled 
complete. An’ besides, I’ve got a wife an’ two little 
kids that I’m tryin’ to make a livin’ for—an’ if 
Harmon ever got wise that I’d told Wilson any¬ 
thing—well, some fine night I’d turned up missin’ 
—that’s all. I don’t know what I went an’ shot 
off my mouth to you for. Somehow you don’t 
look like his stripe. I guess mebbe it was you 
ridin’ around the sheep. If you carry what I’ve 
said back to Harmon it’s all up with me.” 

Connie smiled: “Don’t worry about anything 
you’ve told me ever getting to Harmon,” he 
assured. “But, you haven’t told me yet, why 


Connie Meets a Neighbor 77 

Harmon should want his men to scatter your 
sheep.” 

“ ’Cause he wants to bust me an’ put me out of 
business, that’s why. An’ he’s blame near done it. 
I had a good outfit started here before the Round 
Seven come along an’ located above me. At that, 
there would be’n plenty room for both of us. The 
range is big, an’ there’s plenty of water. I wouldn’t 
of bothered ’em. Fact is I’d gone out of my way 
to do ’em a good turn. Fellow named McNamara 
started the outfit an’ I never had no trouble with 
him. Then he sold out to Wilson, an’ Wilson made 
Harmon foreman, an’ from that time on I’ve had 
my troubles. What with the Round Seven 
thro win’ in stock around my fences along in 
August when the range gits pretty well burnt, so 
they’ll see my green alfalfa an’ bust through an’ eat 
it an’ tromp it in the ground; an’ then holdin’ 
the stock in close so they’ll eat off the grass that 
I need fer winter range—look at it! So short that 
the sheep has got to run their legs off to grab a 
mouthful here an’ there. Look at ’em feed. Them 
leaders has travelled a mile while we be’n talkin’ 
an’ they ought to fill up easy this time a year. I 
ain’t goin’ to have no lamb crop to speak of jest 



78 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


because the ewes has got to run theirself thin to 
git a livin’. It makes herdin’ ten times harder, an’ 
I’ve used up what little hay I was able to cut after 
the Round Seven cattle got through with it. Fer 
the last two years I’ve jest about be’n able to 
make both ends meet, an’ I ought to be lay in’ by 
a little money.” 

“Couldn’t you sue the Round Seven for dam¬ 
ages,” asked the boy, “and buy the hay?” 

The man laughed, bitterly. “This here is a 
cow country, son. A sheep-man wouldn’t stand 
no show to git damages agin a cow outfit. An’ 
even if I did, where’d I buy hay? They ain’t 
another outfit that raises any hay to speak of 
within thirty mile of here. I couldn’t haul it fast 
enough to feed it, even if I could buy it. I’ve 
tried to buy it from the Round Seven—but 
Harmon jest laughs at me.” 

“But, you said he sells it to another sheep 
outfit down the creek.” 

“Yes, but that’s different. Wadell an’ Harmon 
is in kahoots somehow. Mebbe Harmon’s got a 
share in Wadell’s sheep. I couldn’t say fer sure. 
Only I know that he helps Wadell out all he 
kin. They ain’t no cattle shoved over onto him. 



Connie Meets a Neighbor 79 

He ain’t got no legal right to his claim even. He 
ain’t done no ditchin’, an’ he couldn’t hold no 
claim anyhow, because he’s already proved up 
on one claim over on Shonkin, near where Har¬ 
mon’s ranch is. He’s jest squatted there, an’ 
pertendin’ he’s took up the claim, but he ain’t 
foolin’ me. There’s two or three more of his stripe 
located on Beaver, the other side of the Round 
Seven. I got it figgered out that Harmon got ’em 
all to come over around the Round Seven for some 
reason of his own. I don’t know why he wants ’em 
there, but they’re all friends of his. Me, an’ Bill 
Samuels, an’ Mike Campbell is the only bony fido 
nesters on Eagle or Beaver. Bill and Mike has 
got little cow outfits over on Beaver, an’ Harmon 
keeps their stuff scattered to the farthest edges of 
the range. He’s tryin’ to bust them, too. His 
.orders is to throw all their stuff out—that is, when 
his riders sees any of Bill’s or Mike’s stock they 
shove it away from home. They’ve only got a few 
hundred head apiece, an’ they don’t run no 
round-up, so it keeps ’em ridin’ all over Montana 
keepin’ track of their stock. No sir, a little outfit 
ain’t got no show agin a big outfit if the big outfit 
wants to get ’em. But, they’s plenty of big outfits 


80 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

that’s run decent, an’ try to do the nesters a good 
turn instead of harmin’ ’em. The IX is like that, 
an’ the Circle C. But, the PU an’ The Round 
Seven is different. 

“But, isn’t it true that the nesters are fencing 
off all the water?” asked the boy. 

“No, it ain’t true!” exclaimed the sheep-man 
indignantly. “How much have I got under fence? 
How much has Samuels got? And, how much has 
Mike Campbell got fenced? Jest one forty apiece 
for hay—that’s what we’ve got fenced. Fencin’ 
costs money an’ we ain’t fencin’ no more than what 
we have to. It’s your crooked little outfit like 
Wadell that’s doin’ the fencin’—him an’ the others 
that Harmon has got planted along the cricks. 
An’ the fencin’ is done with Round Seven wire! 
I know. I ain’t no fool—but what can I do ? Look 
at the way their claims is laid off—each one of ’em 
has filed ’em a homestead an’ a desert along the 
crick. That takes care of a mile of water, an’ then 
they’ve filed their wives on a woman’s desert, that 
takes care of another mile—an’ they ain’t none 
of ’em married. They’ve jest gone to work an’ 
filed these here wives that there ain’t no such 
people. How in time they expect to prove up on 




Connie Meets a Neighbor 81 

'em I don’t know, but they’ve got four years to 
figger that out—an’ maybe they’ve got some 
scheme or other about it. Take Wadell—that ain’t 
his real name, which it’s Curry, but he had to 
change it, ’cause he’s holdin’ down his claim on 
Shonkin under his real name, an’ I expect the 
others has all changed their names, too. Them 
kind changes their names, like honest folks changes 
their shirt. They dirty one name up by wearin’ 
it a while, an’ then they change to another.” 

“Will you be willing to stand by what you’ve 
told me, when the time comes for a show-down?” 
asked Connie, abruptly. 

The sheep-man cast a swift, startled glance into 
the boy’s face. He noted that the lines about the 
mouth had stiffened, and that the blue-grey eyes 
that gazed steadily into his own gleamed hard and 
cold. The fear-inspired denial that his lips had 
already framed remained unspoken, and came the 
question: “What do you mean? Who are you? 
An’ what do you mean by a show-down?” 

“I mean just this,” answered the boy, and in his 
voice was the ring of determination, “If what 
you’ve told me is true, and we can prove that it’s 
true, this cattle country will be a whole lot better 


82 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


off without Bob Harmon. The state provides a 
place for just such men as he is, and the others 
that are working with him. I think I see through 
their game. I served a year with the Mounted up 
in the Yukon, and first and last, I helped put 
quite a lot of his kind where they belonged.” 

‘ ‘ But—who are you ? An’ what you doin’ down 
this side of the line? I can’t afford to get mixed 
up in no rookus with Harmon. We’re a long ways 
from the railroad down here. The bad lands butts 
right up onto us, an’ the bad lands is full of out¬ 
laws—horse thieves, an’ cattle rustlers, an’ such. 
If Harmon ever thought I tipped him off to any¬ 
one, my life wouldn’t be worth only just the price 
of a ca’tridge. An’ when they found me in some 
coulee the sheriff an’ everyone else would lay it 
to the outlaws in the bad lands. Harmon he would¬ 
n’t think no more of pottin’ a man than he would 
of brandin’ a maverick—if he thought he could get 
away with it. For Gosh Sakes, kid, don’t start 
nothin’! Or you an’ me both will git ourn— 
pronto! But, you ain’t told me yet who you be?” 

4 ‘Morgan is my name,” answered the boy, 
“Connie Morgan. And I’m the new owner of the 
Round Seven.” 


Connie Meets a Neighbor 83 

“The — owner — of — the — Round — 
Seven!” Slowly the man’s lips formed the words, 
as he stared incredulously into the grey-blue eyes. 

“Yes, the owner of the Round Seven. And I’m 
down here to clean things up a bit. When I get 
through this South Slope of the Bear Paws is going 
to be a healthier place to live in than it is right 
now. You and I will hit out all right—and the 
other little outfits, too, that are on the square. But 
the rest of them are going where they belong. A 
month from now we’ll have them hunting their 
holes like rats.” 

The face of the sheep-man had lighted for a 
moment as he caught something of the boy’s 
enthusiasm, but the light faded, leaving it posi¬ 
tively grey with terror. “You can’t do it! They’s 
too many of ’em agin’ you, an’ they’re hard men. 
You ain’t got a chance—an’ you jest a kid!” 

“Look here!” cried the boy impatiently. “I 
may be just a kid but I’ve kind of knocked around 
in places where I’ve had to use my head. I’m not 
afraid of Harmon and his bunch of cheap crooks! 
All I want you to do is to keep your mouth shut 
about everything that’s passed between us. Then 
when the time comes and Harmon and the rest 



84 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

of them are locked up in jail, you’ve got to come 
to the front with testimony that will put them 
behind the bars for a long, long time. Will you 
do it?” 

The man pondered for a few moments and a 
grin slowly twisted his lips: “It ain’t no ways in 
reason that you can get away with it. But, 
somehow—I guess it’s them eyes of yourn—some¬ 
thin’ about you kind of makes me think mebbe 
you can. Anyhow—here goes! Me, bein’ a grown 
man, had ought to be ashamed not to have as 

0 

much nerve as a kid. From now on, I’m for you— 
an’ you don’t need to wait, if you need me, till 
them crooks is locked up, neither, But, take it 
slow, kid, take it slow! If I was you I’d lay low 
till the calf round-up was far enough along so you 
can get him with the goods. He’ll slap his brand 
on a lot of Round Seven stuff this spring—an’ in 
Montana, if you want to get a man real good, jest 
you prove up a job of rustlin’ onto him. The Stock 
Association will back you up, then. If you say 
so I’ll slip the word to Mike Campbell, an’ 
Samuels, an’ then if anything comes up where you 
need friends right quick, they’ll be four of us.” 

“Good idea,” assented Connie. “And we’ll just 


Connie Meets a Neighbor 85 

lie low and keep our eyes open till we get the calf- 
rustling on him, and then we’ll clean house.” 

“ It’ll sure feel fine to be good neighbors with 
the Round Seven again,” said the man. “Seems 
like when things gets so bad they jest naturally 
can’t get no worse, luck always changes.” 

Connie laughed: “A crook has only got about 
so long to run before he gets caught. The smarter 
they are, the longer they can get away with it— 
but they’re all fools—or they wouldn’t be crooks. 
Guess I’ll be going back, now. So long.” 

“So long, an’ good luck to you!” answered the 
man, and with a wave of his arm, he sent his dog 
to head off the leaders of his band of sheep. 


CHAPTER VIII 


TEX 

The hour that Connie had spent with the sheep¬ 
men had given the band time to scatter widely 
in search of feed, and as the boy approached a deep 
coulee three frightened ewes came bounding up 
from its depths. Another followed and just as it 
topped the rim an evil grey shape closed in on it 
and Connie caught the flash of a set of gleaming 
fangs that snapped together within an inch of the 
terrified ewe’s throat. Instantly the boy’s service 
revolver was in his hand, and as the grey shape 
paused for a second to survey the mounted figure 
that had interrupted his meal, the gun spoke, and 
the wolf-like animal sprang into the air and fell 
to the ground snapping and kicking about on the 
short buffalo grass. Connie, however, had little 
chance to watch the death struggle of his victim, 
for at the sound of the explosion, Nigger sunk his 

head, and arching his back, shot into the air. He 

86 


Tex 


87 


struck the ground with a jolt that seemed to drive 
the boy’s spine into the base of his skull, and again 
the horse was in the air. Mechanically the boy 
dug in his spurs with all his might. With his left 
hand he hung to the reins. His right still grasped 
the revolver. Again and again the horse plunged, 
bucking straight ahead in a series of stiff-legged 
plunges that jarred and pounded the boy unmerci¬ 
fully. Suddenly he was conscious of the sound of 
a voice: “Stay with him, cowboy! Stay a long 
time! Fan him! Hook ’em in! Ride—cowboy— 
ride!” 

But Connie was slipping. One leg left the stirrup, 

and the next rise of the horse sent him flying in 

\ 

a beautiful arc straight over the animal’s head. 
The boy struck on his hands and knees, and a 
moment later he was upon his feet. There was a 
sound of pounding hoofs, and he saw Nigger 
heading across the bench closely followed by a 
rider on a curiously spotted horse. The rider was 
swinging a looped rope about his head. Suddenly 
the loop shot out and settled about the neck of 
the fleeing Nigger, and a few moments later the 
rider was coming toward him, leading the runaway. 
As he approached Connie recognized Tex, who 



88 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

greeted him with a grin: “You sure was ridin’, 
boss! But, why in thunder didn’t you haul leather? 
He was buckin’ straight ahead an’ you could of 
stayed with him.” 

Connie returned the grin: “To tell the truth, 
I never thought of it. But, I don’t think I’d have 
done it if I had. Harmon told me what cattle 
men thought of a man that would pull leather.” 

“Oh, he did, did he? Well, that’s all right for 
him to talk. Of course, if you want to put up a 
fancy ride an’ all that sort of stuff, you got to keep 
your hand off the horn. But, I’ve seen Bob Har¬ 
mon pull leather to keep from gettin’ busted onto 
the ground, an’ I’ve pulled leather myself, an’ 
I’ll do it every time I’ve got to, and so will every 
other cow-hand that’s got good sense. Put up as 
good a ride as you can but if it comes to grabbin’ 
leather or quittin’ your horse on the top end of a 
high one, you jest reach down an’ git you a handful 
every time—unless you’re practicin’ up for to ride 
in some circus. I’ve handled stock longer than 
Harmon has, an’ you can take it from me, they 
ain’t no one but a fool goin’ to blame you for 
haulin’ leather when you’ve got to.” 

Instinctively, Connie liked this smiling cow 



Tex 


89 


puncher, whose hazel eyes looked steadily into his 
own. He watched as Tex leaned forward in his 
saddle and loosened the rope from the neck of the 
recalcitrant Nigger. There was assurance in his 
every movement. The boy recalled the easy swing 
of the looped rope, and the accuracy with which it 
had fallen about the neck of the flying horse, and 
he watched now as the man coiled the rope and 
returned it to its place with the dexterity of long 
practice. Something about the cowboy reminded 
him of Waseche Bill—the soft drawl of his voice, 
or maybe the manner of the kindly advice that 
was offered as man to man for what it was worth, 
and not doled out from man to boy in the patron¬ 
izing manner of a piece of schooling. Possibly it 
was because of the realization that here was a 
man who was absolutely competent to do the thing 
that he set out to do. Despite his youth, Connie 
Morgan had had wide experience of men. His 
judgment had disapproved Harmon from the 
moment of their first meeting, and that same 
judgment approved Tex. Therefore it was no 
surprise to the boy when he detected from the 
man’s words that he held the foreman of the 
Round Seven in a sort of tolerant contempt. And 


90 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


instinctively Connie knew that this contempt was 
not engendered by any sense of petty jealousy, but 
was the natural contempt of a square man for a 
crook. Here was an ally worth having, but one 
whose alliance must be earned, not bargained for— 
an ally who would naturally align himself upon the 
side of right against wrong. 

The boy returned the gun to its holster, and the 
cow-puncher’s glance traveled from the weapon to 
its victim that lay stretched upon the ground. 

“That was good shootin’,” he ventured. “But 
shootin’ coyotes won’t make no hit with Harmon. 
It would have be’n as much as our job was worth 
if one of us had done it.” 

“Why?” asked the boy in astonishment. 
“They’re a kind of a wolf ain’t they? He was just 
about to kill one of those sheep when I got him.” 

Tex grinned: “Yeh, they’re a kind of a wolf, 
all right, an’ they sure do kill sheep—an that’s 
why Harmon likes ’em. They don’t bother the 
calves none, but they’re death on lambs, an’ even 
old ewes. We’ve got orders not to kill no coyotes. 
They’re gettin’ thicker every year around here. 
John Grey—them was John’s sheep—he kills one 
now an’ then with his rifle, but they’ve learnt to 


Tex 


91 


keep shy of a man afoot, while us fellows can ride 
right onto ’em. They’re slick, coyotes are, they 
soon learn who to keep out of the way of.” 

“And Harmon wants them to kill Grey’s sheep, 
is that the idea ? ’ ’ 

“That’s the size of it.” 

“He told me all about these nesters—about 
their fencing off all the water so the range stock 
can’t get any to drink.” 

“Yes,” answered Tex, gravely: “Take John 
Grey, now; I reckon he’s fenced off all of forty rod 
of water, to keep the range stock out of his alfalfa. 
But, he might have saved his wire.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, it got busted, an’ the cattle et the 
alfalfa.” 

“I’ve just been talking with Grey,” said the boy, 
suddenly. “He told me quite a lot of things about 
the Round Seven. I’m wondering if they’re true.” 

“Couldn’t say,” answered Tex, his attention 
riveted apparently upon the rolling of a cigarette. 

“Well, among other things, he told me that the 
Round Seven cattle were thrown against his fences 
on purpose so they would break through and eat 
his alfalfa. Do you know anything about that?” 


92 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


Tex lighted his cigarette, carefully blew out the 
match, and flicked it into a patch of prickly pears. 
‘‘A cow-hand ain’t hired to figger on the purpose 
that’s behind the boss’s orders. So I couldn’t say. 
All I know is that along last August, when the 
range was all burnt brown, we fogged a bunch of 
about four hundred steers around all day on dry 
range, not lettin’ ’em stop to eat, an’ about four 
o’clock in the evenin’ we was ordered to swing ’em 
in against Grey’s fences an’ leave ’em till mornin’. 
The alfalfa was green an’ cool lookin’, an’ the water 
sparkled in the sun, an’ the thermometer stood 
about a hundred. Next mornin’ I kind of noticed 
they wasn’t no alfalfa in Grey’s field, an’ most of his 
west fence was down flat.” 

“Who ordered that done?” 

“Bob Harmon.” 

‘ ‘ Did Wilson know it ? ” 

“Can’t say what Wilson know’d, or what he 
didn’t know. He was away then—gone for a 
couple of weeks or so, prospectin’ the bad lands.” 

“Grey told me a lot of other things, too,” said 
Connie, “before he knew who I was.” 

Tex grinned: “I reckon you got you an earful.” 

“I did. Among other things I heard that the 


Tex 


93 


Round Seven is a crooked outfit. That Harmon 
has got nesters to come over here and settle on the 
creeks, and that the water is fenced off with Round 
Seven wire, and that Wadell is feeding Round 
Seven hay to his sheep, and that he’s got another 
claim over on Shonkin that he holds under another 
name, and that Harmon is stealing Round Seven 
calves, and that Mike Campbell and Samuels are 
the only real nesters on Beaver and the others are 
all fakes. What I want to know, is all this true?” 

“What if it would be?” asked Tex, noncom¬ 
mit ally. 

“If it’s true,” flashed the boy, “if that’s the 
kind of an outfit I’ve bought, believe me, there’s 
going to be something doing on the South Slope 
before long! I’ve always played a square game, 
and I’m always going to. I’m here to clean this 
outfit up, and every crook is going to get hurt!” 

“They’ll be some considerable pain suffered 
south of the mountains by the way the moon 
hangs,” opined Tex oracularly. 

“Look here, Tex,” cried the boy, impulsively. 
“I’ve learned to size men up. I’ve had to do it all 
my life. You had rather work for a square outfit 
than a crooked one?” 


94 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

The cow-puncher pondered the words: “It’s 
be’n quite a spell since I’ve had the chance,” he 
answered dryly, “I sort of forget.” 

Connie laughed: “Then what Grey told me is 
true?” he persisted. 

“Let’s reason it out,” answered Tex. “It’s a 
cinch it ain’t poetry, therefore, by the process of 
elimination, as the feller says, it must be truth.” 

“The Round Seven is going to need a new fore¬ 
man very soon,” said the boy. “Will you take the 
job?” 

“Is that a bribe? I’m supposed to agree to 
help git rid of Harmon so I get his job ?” 

“It is not—and you know it!” exclaimed the 
boy. “With you, or without you, I’m going to see 
that Harmon gets what’s coming to him. Then the 
ranch will need someone who is competent to run 
it. And, I’ve got a hunch that you’re the man.” 

“An,’ dog my cats, if I don’t believe you’ll do 
it! Before the mud of Eagle is dried on your boots 
you’ve found out more than Wilson ever learnt. 
I’m for you. An’ not because I want to be fore¬ 
man, neither. I jest want to see how it feels to 
set in a square game again. But take it slow. We 
might have some rough work ahead of us. I know 


Tex 


95 


a whole lot already, an’ I aim to know more about 
how things is stacked up. You set tight, boss, an’ 
we’ll get the goods on ’em. But, don’t let Harmon 
suspicion you know nothin’ till the time’s right. 
Wait till along towards the tail end of the calf 
round-up—then one of these days you an’ me an’ 
the sheriff will pull a little surprise party—some- 
wheres down in the sage brush.” 


CHAPTER IX 


HARMON TALKS 

During the week that the other riders were 
rounding up the horses with Bob Harmon, Connie 
rode the range with Tex, who took pains to initiate 
him into the cattle business, explaining the every¬ 
day details as they presented themselves. This 
quiet, rather whimsical Texan had been bom in 
the cattle country and had punched cattle in every 
state in the Union that boasted open range. Habi¬ 
tually conservative in forming friendships, the 
cowboy’s respect and admiration for his young 
employer grew with the passing of the days. And 
the respect was mutual, for Connie shrewdly 
penetrated the other’s habitual mask of half- 
mocking cynicism and evasive tricks of speech, 
and recognized the real worth of the man. 

The boy took keen interest in the work. Each 

morning after breakfast the two rode through the 

hospital bunch in the big pasture, the cow-puncher 

96 



The sheepman eyed him with a hostile glare. “ Why didn t you ride right 

through ’em? he asked 







Harmon Talks 


97 


cutting out, the cattle whose feeding on hay had 
put them in shape to be returned to the open 
range. Sometimes three or four, sometimes as 
many as ten or a dozen were separated from the 
bunch, driven through the gate, and located on 
water several miles from the pasture fence. This 
cutting out process created in the boy a profound 
respect for the sagacity of the cow-pony, as he 
watched Tex’s horse, Skewball, deftly separate the 
selected animal from the herd. A half-minute 
after his rider had picked out an animal, the pinto 
knew which one was wanted, and thereafter Tex 
had nothing to do but sit in the saddle while the 
pony carefully and slowly worked the creature out 
of the herd. At the edge the animal always tried 
to turn back, but never succeeded, for knowing 
that the time for slow work and caution had passed 
the pony became a thing of magnificent action, 
turning, twisting, pivoting, anticipating every 
dodge and rush of the animal that sought vainly 
to regain the herd. 

“It ain’t every cayuse that makes a cuttin’ 
horse,” explained Tex. “It takes one that’s smart, 
an’ one that’s quick as a cat, an’ has got the speed 
in him. Most of the range horses are either too 


98 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

knot-headed to learn the game, or they’re too 
clumsy, or too slow. But Skewball, here, he’s a 
top horse at it.” 

Under the capable tutelage of Tex, Connie 
learned to read brands, and as they circled the 
range in search of weak stock, he practiced, by 
the hour with his rope, trying to drop his loop 
over anything and everything, from a patch of 
prickly pears to a bleeching buffalo skull. 

On one of these rides, the two pulled up at a 
point on the rim of Eagle Creek valley that 
afforded a view of the Round Seven’s lower hay 
field. A man was pitching hay from a stack onto 
a hayrack to which a team stood harnessed. 
“The boys must be feeding from the lower field, 
today,” he said. “I wonder what the idea is, 
when the other field is so much nearer.” 

Tex grinned: ‘ ‘That ain’t a Round Seven team, ” 
he replied. “That’s Wadell, an’ he’s stuffin’ his 
band of wethers full of your hay. Saves him a lot 
of work herdin’ when the range is et down close 
like it is along Eagle.” 

“Pretty expensive, isn’t it?” asked the boy. 
“Feeding hay to sheep that could just as well be 
picking up their living on the range?” 


Harmon Talks 


99 


Tex squinted down the valley. “U-m-m, take 
it as a problem in arithmetic, an’ it would run 
somethin’ like this: One fifty-ton stack of hay at 
twenty dollars a ton equals one thousan’ dollars. 
Startin’ on another fifty-ton stack, which it looks 
like he’d shoveled off about ten ton already, two 
hundred dollars more. Button, button—who’s 
got the button ? ” 

The boy smiled: “Wadell has got the hay.” 

“Yup, but the arithmetic don’t tell no way to 
find out who’s got the twelve hundred.” 

“I haven’t seen the books of the outfit, yet,” 
said the boy. 

“I don’t expect they’ll be cluttered up none 
with no hay entries, when you do see ’em,” opined 
the other. 

‘ ‘ Do you think Harmon has stuck the money in 
his pocket?” asked Connie. 

“I don’t think Wadell had no twelve hundred 
for him to stick in his pocket. Did you notice the 
brand on them sheep of his we passed a while 
back?” 

“Yes, they were branded with a Red X.” 

“Yup, that’s right,” commented the cow- 
puncher. “Me, I used to go to school onct, away 


ioo Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

back, but there was some of their rules concernin’ 
discipline I couldn’t recollect, so they cut me out 
of the herd an’ turned me loose with the wild 
bunch. But, not before I’d got past arithmetic an’ 
into algebra. Did they ever pitch you algebra for 
a fattenin’ feed?” 

“No,” laughed Connie, “I never had much 
schooling.” 

“Well, I was educated onct plumb up to where 
it made my head hurt to hold it. It took years 
of range ridin’ before I forgot the heft of it an’ 
relieved the pressure. I’ll learn you algebra some 
day when we’re eatin’ lunch. It would take a 
half an hour or so, an’ we ain’t got time, now. 
Anyways, in algebra, when you don’t know what 
you’re tryin’ to find out, you let X equal it. It’s 
easy, after you savvy it.” Tex rolled a cigarette, 
and started his horse after the little bunch of 
cattle they were driving to the pasture. 

“But, what’s that got to do with Wadell?” 
asked the boy, puzzled. 

“Oh, that? Well, we want to find twelve 
hundred dollars. We don’t know where it’s at, 
so we’ll let X equal twelve hundred dollars. Them 
sheep of Wadell’s is branded with an X. There- 


Harmon Talks 


IOI 


fore, the twelve hundred dollars is in the sheep. 
P. D. Q., as the geometry books says when they’ve 
proved up on a claim. In other words, if I was a 
lawyer, instead of a mathmatition, I’d advise 
layin low without sayin’ nothin’ about books, or 
anything else that would make Harmon suspicious. 
Don’t let on you know nothin’ about Wadell nor 
hay, nor John Grey, till I give the word. When we 
get Harmon right where we want him, we’ll close 
in on him an’ the sheriff will be along. At the same 
time we can attach them sheep, an’ see if we can’t 
extract twelve hundred dollars out of ’em, an’ at 
the same time turn Wadell over to Uncle Sam for 
filin’ a fraudulent claim.” 

An hour later, as they were closing the gate 
behind the little bunch of old cows they turned 
into the big pasture, a thunder of hoofs sounded 
from the bench. “Here comes the horses!” cried 
Tex. “Come on, we’ll help ’em run ’em into the 
horse pasture,” and putting spurs to his pinto, 
the cowboy headed up a coulee that slanted 
steeply up to the bench, closely followed by 
Connie. They gained the upper level as the herd 
swept by. It was a splendid sight, a hundred horses 
running free, manes tossing in the breeze, tails 


102 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

held high, and the noise of their hoofs pounding 
the buffalo grass like the rumble of thunder, and 
behind, and on either flank rode the cowboys, 
urging them on. Tex and Connie joined in at the 
tail of the herd and the whole remuda swept on up 
the bench and into the valley of the west branch 
of Eagle where they were turned into the horse 
pasture. 

Bob Harmon rode beside Connie as the boys 
headed for the ranch. “Got a hundred an’ three 
head,” he said. “We’re about seventeen head shy. 
We generally run a twelve man round-up and I 
aim to give each man ten horses in his string. I 
heard there was four of ’em way down acrost Big 
Sandy, runnin’ with some IX horses, but I didn’t 
take time to go after ’em. Half a dozen of ’em’s 
played out an’ we left them on the range, an’ the 
rest is somewheres on the range where we kin 
prob’ly pick ’em up on the round-up; Tex an’ 
Milk River has broke about a dozen bronchos so 
we’ll have enough. How you makin’ it ? I see 
you’ve learnt to ride, all right. I expect the sore¬ 
ness an’ stiffness is about rode off by this time, 
ain’t it?” 

“Oh, yes,” answered the boy. “It only lasted 


Harmon Talks 


103 

a couple of days. I’ve been riding every day, 
helping Tex with the hospital stuff.” 

“Ridin’ with Tex, eh? I s’pose he’s be’n kind 
of breakin’ you in to the cow business.” The 
boy noted that the foreman’s eyes had shot him 
a keen glance, and shifted to the back of the 
Texan who rode a few paces ahead with Milk 
River Bill. 

“Yes, been trying to teach me to read brands, 
and throw a rope, how to work a herd, and a lot of 
things like that.” 

“He’s a good man— when he’s a mind to, Tex 
is,” answered the boss. “He’s a good hand with 
horses, an’ he savvies the cow business, all right. 
But, I wouldn’t get too thick with him. Not that 
he ain’t all right—maybe. But, well, it’s like 
this, if an owner gits thick with one of the hands 
it generally always starts trouble somewheres. The 
other boys sees it, an’ it kind of makes ’em grum¬ 
ble. Owners generally don’t have no dealin’s 
much with the men, only the foreman, that is, 
except it’s a little yak outfit.” 

“What’s a yak outfit?” 

“Nester outfit. An outfit that ain’t only got a 
few head, an’ hires all the way from nothin’ up to 


io4 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

two or three hands. Them outfits ain’t got no 
foreman, an’ the owner runs it hisself. This here 
Tex, you never know what’s a-goin’ on in his head. 
Far’s I know he might be all right, but I kind of 
like to have a man come out now an’ then with 
what he thinks. But him, he ain’t never got much 
to say—just looks at you like he know’d a good 
joke on you, or somethin’, an’ he was laffin’ at 
you—only he don’t come out an’ laff—that’s just 
the way he looks—like he was goin’ to. Take 
these here still fellers like that, an’ I wouldn’t 
trust ’em no further than what I could throw a bull 
by the tail—not that I’m sayin’ anythin’ agin 
Tex, nor nothin’ like that. But I like to know 
what’s goin’ on in a man’s head. Course I don’t 
like none of these here mouthy yaps that’s always 
shootin’ off their face ’bout everything that ain’t 
none of their business, which them kind don’t 
never know nothin’ about nothin’. But Tex, 
when he does open his mouth an’ say somethin’, 
it’s generally somethin’ that it takes you till day 
after tomorrow to figger out what he’s drivin’ at, 
an’ chances is, you can’t figger it, then. If it 
wasn’t that men’s scurse this year I’d let him go, 
but I got to hang onto him till after the calf round- 


Harmon Talks 


105 


up, anyhow. I’ve got to dig out tomorrow an’ 
rustle some men. The grass is beginnin’ to pick 
up, an’ I want to pull the wagons about the tenth 
of May. It’ll take me mebbe a week to git my 
riders together.” 

“We’ve got four riders beside you and me, now,” 
figured the boy. “You’ll have to hunt up eight 
more. Is that it?” 

“I want ’leven riders besides me, an’ a day 
wrangler, an’ a night hawk. The remuda has got 
to be herded night an’ day,” he explained, “an’ 
run into the rope corral fer the boys to ketch up 
their horses. That makes thirteen, an’ the cook 
makes fourteen, an’ if you’re goin’ to stay with 
the round-up, it’ll make fifteen. We got to leave 
one man here besides the ranch hands to handle 
the hospital bunch, so I got to rustle up nine 
hands. I know where I kin git holt of some of 
’em, but the rest is goin’ to be hard to git, what 
with the IX, an’ the PU, an’ the Bear Paw Pool 
all hirin’ riders to onct.” 

“How much do you pay them?” asked the 
boy. 

“Forty dollars a month is goin’ wages on this 
range.” 


io 6 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Pay ’em forty-five, then, and you won’t have 
any trouble getting them.” 

Harmon laughed: “Not on yer life! If I was 
to offer forty-five, we’d have the grass all wore off 
the range fer fellers huntin’ a job—an’ then it 
would git us in bad with the other outfits. You 
see, in the cow business, outfits has got to work 
together. It’s like this: Here’s the range strung 
out fer hundreds of miles an’ the cattle from all the 
outfits all mixed up on it. If every outfit tried to 
cover the whole range they wouldn’t none of ’em 
git nowheres in all summer. So we divide it up. 
We work part of it, an’ the PU works part, an’ the 
IX, an’ the Bear Paw Pool. Each outfit sends a 
man to ride with each one of the other round-ups. 
They are the Reps. That way every outfit has 
got the same number of hands they hire, an’ every 
outfit is represented on each round-up—that’s 
where they git the name of Reps. Each outfit 
carries brandin’ irons of the other outfits. When 
we drag out a calf that’s follerin a PU cow we slap 
the PU brand on it, an’ when they drag out one of 
oum they brand it accordin’.” 

They had reached the ranch and as the boys 

unsaddled beside the horse corral, and spread 


Harmon Talks 


107 


their blankets to dry, the voice of the cook 
sounded from the kitchen door: “Come on an’ git 
it, or I’ll throw it away!’’ And with a great 
jangling of spurs, the riders of the Round Seven 
raced clumsily in their high heeled boots for the 
wash dish that occupied a bench beside the door. 


1 


CHAPTER X 


LEFT HANDED BRANDING IRONS 

The following morning Harmon dispatched Milk 
River Bill to town with a four-horse-team to haul 
back the supplies for the round-up. An hour later 
he rode away in search of riders, after issuing 
orders that set all hands busy overhauling tents, 
wagons, harness, cook outfit, branding irons, and 
rope corral; and putting all in shape for the 
round-up that would take them from the ranch 
for fifty or sixty days. 

Connie took an active interest in everything 
from the setting of a wagon tire to the overhauling 
of harness and it was not until late in the after¬ 
noon that he found himself alone with Tex. 

“Harmon is wondering whether I’m going to 
ride the round-up,” he said, “But I didn’t tell 
him. I wanted to have a talk with you first. Do 
you think it would spoil our chance of catching 
him if I went along?” 

108 


Left Handed Branding Irons 109 

“On the start it won’t make no difference one 
way or the other. He won’t try any monkey busi¬ 
ness till the wagons are way down behind the 
Little Rockys, which is the furthest end of the 
range we work, an’ likewise the clostest to the 
Mizoo. His ranch is over on Shonkin, an’ he 
ferries or flat boats the calves acrost. It’s accordin’ 
to how things frames up. One of us has got to be 
there to keep cases on him so we’ll know when to 
spring our party. I’ve got a hunch that if you want 
to ride the round-up I’ll be the one that’s elected 
to stick on the ranch an’ nurse them hospitals. 
I seen last evenin’ when he found us two together 
that he figured he’d made a mistake. You see, he 
ain’t got me guessed. He don’t like me a-tall. He 
ain’t restin’ easy as long as I’m with the outfit, an* 
yet he don’t dare to fire me because he don’t know 
how much I know. He don’t like me because he 
don’t savvy me—an’ I don’t like him because I 
do—an’ there you are. I reckon he’ll try to keep 
us two apart as much as he can anyway till after 
he gets them calves branded, or else gets rid of me. 

* ‘ The way it looks from here the best bet w T ould 
be for you an’ me not to pay no attention to one 
another. You tell him you’ll ride the round-up, 


no Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


an’ chances are he’ll leave me here at the ranch. 
Then along at the tail end of the round-up, he 
an’ Alex, an’ Milk River, an’ Kid will haul out for 
a couple of days, pertendin’ they’re goin’ to work 
some creek, an’ send the wagons on with a straw 
boss. They’ll be gone a couple of days an’ then 
they’ll come back. What you got to do is to stay 
with the wagons till they get back an’ then kind 
of let on that you’re tired of the round-up, er get 
sick, or somethin’ an’ hit for the ranch. Then’s 
when we get busy. Meanwhile I’ll get holt of 
McLaughlin, he’s the Sheriff, an’ Dave Hall, the 
stock inspector, an’ kind of let on that they better 
be ready to come on the jump when they hear 
from me. They can get here in a day, an’ the next 
night there’ll be somethin’ doin’ somewheres down 
in the sage brush.” 

“But, won’t they have time to make away with 
the calves before we can get back there?” asked 
the boy. 

“No, this here sage brush work is particular 
business, an’ has got to be worked just so. It 
takes about a week or ten days to work it, an’ if 
everything goes accordin’ to Hoyle, it’s the safest 
cattle rustlin’ scheme that’s be’n invented. What 


Ill 


Left Handed Branding Irons 

we got to do is to kind of slip a gravel under their 
saddle an’ upset the dope. When we get through 
with ’em they’ll have a chance to say: 4 Good 
Mornin’, Judge,’ down to Benton. An’ the judge, 
he’ll pick ’em out anywheres from two to twenty 
years apiece—with most judges favorin’ the 
twenty.” 

“I don’t see how they work it,” said Connie. 
‘ ‘ If he puts his brand on the calves anyone could 
see that they were following Round Seven cows, 
and if he waits till the Round Seven brand is on 
them, how does he get it off?” 

“They’s a lot of tricks these rustlers is onto. 
There’s three schemes that’s used more than 
others. First, there’s the hair artists. They don’t 
use any irons at all. They work with horses, most¬ 
ly, where they can trail the stuff out of the country 
and get rid of it quick. All they do is to clip the 
hair around the brand so it leaves ridges that 
look just like a brand mark. These ridges connect 
onto the regular brand and make it look like an¬ 
other brand altogether. Take your own brand for 
instance,” Tex stopped and traced the Round Seven 
Bar in the dust. 9" “There she is, now some 
hair artist comes along an’ dobs his rope onto a 


112 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


calf or a colt an’ throws an’ hog ties ’em an’ goes 
to work. Suppose he leaves a ridge of hair shaped 
like another Round Seven Bar, reversed, on the 
right hand side of that brand, with the two bars 
connected like this: ye Now when the critter 
gets up, he ain’t a Round Seven critter no more— 
he’s a Flyin’ H, plain as day. Of course when the 
hair grows out he’s a Round Seven critter again, 
but by that time he’s be’n trailed clean out of the 
country, an’ sold, an’ the hair artist is maybe 
five hundred miles away doctorin’ brands on some 
other range. That’s one way. 

“Another way is to alter the brand with runnin’ 
irons. There’s two kinds of runnin’ irons. One is 
simply a straight piece of iron that the rustler heats 
the end of an’ traces out a brand, or changes one 
that’s already on, like you would handle a pencil. 
The other kind is really two irons, a short bar, and 
a quarter circle. You can make any brand there 
is with a short bar and a quarter circle, an’ of 
course you can change any brand there is. The 
runnin’ iron work makes a permanent brand, so 
whatever changin’ is done has got to be made into 
some brand that’s recorded. Bob Harmon he don’t 
favor neither one of these ways. He works the 



Left Handed Branding Irons 113 

short iron game. Come over to the blacksmith 
shop a minute, an’ I’ll show you somethin’. Guess 
there ain’t no one nosin’ around. I happened to 
stumble onto the place where Bob keeps his pri¬ 
vate short irons cached.” 

In the blacksmith shop Tex removed a small 
pile of odds and ends of scrap iron, and lifting a 
short length of floor planking, reached beneath 
the floor and drew out a couple of curiously shaped 
irons. Handing one to Connie he asked: “What 
do you call them?” 

“They’re Round Seven branding irons!” ex¬ 
claimed the boy. 

“Yeh, they’re Round Seven, all right—but, do 
you see anything funny about them?” 

The boy studied the iron. “Why, it’s turned the 
wrong way!” 

“Yup—left handed brandin’ iron, all right,” 
grinned the cowboy. 

“But, how does he work it? Is his brand the 
Round Seven Bar turned the other way?” 

“No. If it was he couldn’t work your brand 
none. Bob Harmon’s Brand is the Heart Bar. It 
goes on the left side, same as yours. It looks like 
this:” Connie stared at the brand that the 


x i4 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

cowboy traced on the floor. “Do you get the 
idea? ” asked Tex. Connie shook his head. ‘ ‘Well, 
accordin’ to the arithmetic, two times seven is four¬ 
teen. But that there is just common sevens, an’ not 
Round Sevens with a Bar through ’em. If you add 
two of them together, one way you get a Flyin’ H, 
like I showed you. An’ added the other way, you 
get a Heart Bar. Take this here reversed Round 
Seven Bar, -f an’ your Round Seven Bar, an’ shove 
’em together, an’ you get the Heart Bar, an ’ that’s 
Bob’s brand. The way he works it, he’s pretty 
safe. He waits till the wagons get way dow r n back 
of the Little Rockys where there ain’t no ranches 
to bother, an’ after they get a bunch of calves 
branded with your brand, Bob an’ Alex, an’ Milk 
River, an’ Kid Owens, they slip away from the 
outfit an’ round-up anywhere from twenty-five 
to a hundred head of cows an’ fresh branded calves, 
an’ drive ’em to a sage brush corral he’s got hid 
down there somewheres. They run the calves 
into the corral, an’ leave the cows outside. His 
man that looks after his outfit is there waitin’ an’ 
he camps there right handy. Bob an’ the boys go 
back to the wagons for a week or ten days. Mean¬ 
while this other bird stays right there an’ watches 


Left Handed Branding Irons 115 

that corral from some pinnacle where he can see 
a good swipe of country. The cows are circlin’ 
around the fence tryin’ to get to the calves, an’ 
they’re bawlin’ their heads off. Inside the fence 
the calves are tryin’ to get out an’ they’re bawlin’ 
as loud as the cows. As long as no riders get 
within earshot everything is lovely. In about a 
week or ten days the cows give it up, an’ go away. 
All this time this lookout has be’n feedin’ the 
calves, an’ by the time the cows pull out they’re 
weaned. Then Harmon an’ his gang come back, 
an’ they slap his reversed iron on the calves, makin’ 
a Heart Bar out of your Round Seven Bar, an’ 
then they drive them to the river an’ ferry ’em 
across.” 

“But, suppose someone would happen along and 
hear the cows and calves bawling, and decide to 
investigate?” asked the boy. 

“They wouldn’t find out nothin’. The lookout 
would see ’em cornin’ from his perch, an’ would 
beat it down an’ open the corral gate. When the 
investigatin’ party got there, all he’d find would 
be a bunch of Round Seven cows with Round 
Seven calves follerin’ ’em, all regular an’ proper.” 

“But, suppose someone should run across them 


n6 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


driving the calves to the river?” persisted the boy. 
“Wouldn’t it look kind of funny to see a lot of 
young calves with one-half of their brand new, and 
the other half old?” 

“It ain’t likely they would meet up with anyone 
way down there,” answered the cowboy. “Spe¬ 
cially as this corral is right close to the river. But 
he plays pretty safe by slappin’ on his brand 
before the Round Seven brand has had time to 
heal up. If anyone did come Harmon would 
scatter the calves in the sage an’ round ’em up 
later. He’s got it worked out pretty slick, all 
right—but, he’s about played his string out. This 
year he’ll prob’ly brand up a big bunch, ’cause he 
figures on quittin’ this fall, an’ he’ll want to make 
a clean-up.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE WAGONS ROLL 

It was quite an imposing calvacade that pulled 
out of the Round Seven home ranch a week 
later, and struck westward, skirting the bad lands. 
Breakfast had been eaten by lamplight, and in the 
first grey of dawn the boys had harnessed the work 
horses to the wagons, roped out their saddle 
horses and mounted amid yells of encouragement 
and banter for those whose horses “sunk their 
heads.” 

Harmon had designated the fork of a certain 
creek some ten miles away as the location of the 
first camp of the round-up. Kid Owens acting as 
“pilot” pulled out ahead, closely followed by the 
remuda, consisting of one hundred and fifteen 
saddle horses, and twelve extra wagon horses, in 
charge of Milk River Bill and a full blooded Gros 
Ventre Indian, named Roy Longknife, who had 
been hired as day wrangler. Behind the remuda 


n8 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

rode Harmon and Connie and ten cowboys. And 
following them came the grub wagon, with Walt 
Jones, the cook, on the seat, handling the six 
restive horses with the air of a circus band-wagon 
driver. The bed wagon brought up the rear. 
This, also, was a six-horse wagon, which contained 
the tents and was piled high with the ponderous 
bed rolls of the cowboys. The “night hawk,” as 
the night remuda herder is called, drove this 
wagon. He was a Brule Sioux breed named Sam 
Shanto and he handled his plunging six-team with 
an air of bored indifference, a limp cigarette hang¬ 
ing from the corner of his mouth. 

On the rim of Eagle Creek valley Harmon pulled 
up and the riders gathered about him. “All right, 
boys,” he cried, “we’re off! Gather all cows an’ 
calves, an’ everything you run onto that ain’t 
branded. You all know where the wagons will be 
camped at the fork of Dry Box Elder. Alex, you 
take five of ’em with you an’ circle along the edge 
of the mountains, drop off a couple of riders every 
three or four miles, an’ I’ll take the rest an’ circle 
south along the bad lands. Try to get in by ten- 
thirty, so we kin work herd, an’ make a good sized 
circle this afternoon.” 


The Wagons Roll 


119 


“How about nester stuff?” asked a new man. 

“Shove everything that wears a nester’s brand 
on ahead of you,” ordered Harmon. “This outfit 
scatters nester stock as wide as it kin.” 

Connie wanted to countermand the order, but 
fearing that any interference with the foreman at 
this time would upset the plans of Tex, who true 
to his prediction had been left at the ranch, he 
remained silent. 

The boy rode beside Harmon, who swung toward 
the bad lands with his half of the riders. And as 
they rode the foreman explained the working of 
the round-up. “We drop off a couple of riders 
every few miles, an’ they work the range be¬ 
tween them an’ the wagons, gatherin’ all the cows 
an’ calves. We don’t bother the beef stuff on the 
spring round-up. When they git in with their stuff 
some of ’em holds herd—ridin’ around ’em to 
keep ’em bunched, an’ some rides through the 
bunch ropin’ out the calves by the hind legs an’ 
draggin’ ’em to the fire where they’re branded. 
When the herd is all worked, they’re turned loose 
an’ the afternoon circle starts. There’s two circles 
a day, an’ two herds to work, then next momin’ 
the outfit moves on ten or twelve miles an’ the 


i2o Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


same thing all over again. They’s more work to 
the calf round-up than there is to the beef round¬ 
up, but there ain’t no night guard to stand because 
we don’t hold nothin’ over night.” 

After the last two men had been dropped off, 
Harmon and Connie continued on for three miles 
or more and then swung northward. 

“You see,” explained Harmon, “We’re right 
now just about due south of where the wagons is 
camped. We head north, with what we gather. 
Alex, he’ll be just about due north of the wagons, 
an’ he’ll head south with his stuff. The other boys 
will gather everything between, so you see the 
range east of the wagons has all be’n worked.” 

‘ ‘ I see,’’ said the boy. ‘ ‘ But, why don’t you drop 
the boys off one at a time? I should think you 
could cover more ground that way.” 

“We could cover more ground, all right. But 
cow-hands always work in pairs on circle. One 
man can’t handle stuff to do any good. Sometimes 
a cow gits on the prod an’ one man can’t do 
nothin’ with her, an’ then when he’d git quite a 
bunch gathered an’ they’d start breakin’ back, he 
couldn’t handle ’em. It takes two men, an’ even 
then sometimes they’ve got their hands full.” 


121 


The Wagons Roll 

Connie and Harmon were the last ones in, and 
as they shoved their thirty cows, each followed by 
a young calf into the herd, the cook called dinner. 
Leaving four men on herd, the boys all raced their 
horses for the wagon, where they unsaddled in an 
incredibly short time and turned their horses into 
the rope corral where the wrangler was holding, 
the remuda. Selecting tin plates, cups, knives, 
forks, and spoons, from a huge dish-pan, the boys 
formed in line and passed by the huge sheet iron 
stove where Walt Jones, roll-sleeved, and bedecked 
in a flour-sack apron, filled each plate to over¬ 
flowing with fresh beef, potatoes, and canned 
corn. Each man filled his own cup from the huge 
coffee pot that was boiling on the back of the 
stove, and then seating himself on the ground, pro¬ 
ceeded to put the well-cooked dinner where it would 
do the most good. A huge section of dried apple 
pie completed the meal, and depositing the dirty 
dishes in another huge dish-pan the boys walked 
to their saddles, procured their ropes, and stepping 
over the single rope supported on stakes, that 
formed the “fence” of the corral, proceeded to 
rope out their horses. A half dozen caught up 
“cut horses,” trained cow-ponies wise in the tricks 


122 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


of herd working, while the remainder selected any 
horse from their string that their fancy dictated. 

Milk River Bill, who rode the “rough string,” 
which was made up of the new horses just broken 
by himself and Tex, furnished much entertain¬ 
ment, by roping out and saddling a particularly 
vicious broncho which as soon as the rider was in 
the saddle cut loose and bucked high, wide, and 
handsome, to the huge delight of all hands. Milk 
River was a real “broncho twister,” and Connie 
found himself yelling approbation with the others 
as the man, with the ease of long practice, main¬ 
tained his seat while the maddened horses “sun- 
fished,” “swapped ends,” and bucked and pitched 
with every trick in the box. Calmly the cowboy 
sat his saddle and each time the horse’s feet hit 
the ground with the nasty stiff-legged jolt, the 
quirt descended about his ears, first on one side, 
then on the other, while the spurs raked and 
scratched him from shoulder to flank. Not once 
during the performance did Milk River reach for 
the horn, and finally, exhausted, and steaming with 
sweat the broncho gave up, and trotting clumsily 
under the strange weight on his back, he followed 
the other horses to the herd. 


123 


The Wagons Roll 

It was not a large herd, and by noon the brand¬ 
ing was finished and the cattle turned loose, a 
milling, roaring, horde of bellowing cows hunting 
for their calves from which they had become 
separated in the mix-up, and of bawling calves 
searching for their mothers. 

Again the wrangler corraled the remuda, and 
once more the cowboys changed horses for the 
afternoon circle. At half-past four the new herd 
was in, consisting of all stock picked up from the 
range within five or six miles to the westward of 
the wagons. Supper was eaten at quarter to five, 
and the herd worked afterward. It was during the 
working of this afternoon herd that Connie wit¬ 
nessed an incident, by no means uncommon on 
the round-up, that showed the absolute necessity 
for alertness and quick action in the handling of 
range stock. In making a pivot turn, a cow pony 
went down among the feet of the milling, frenzied 
herd of cows. The moment man and horse dis¬ 
appeared, two riders dashed at top speed for the 
spot, slashing right and left with their quirts, and 
forcing their horses through the mass of cattle. 
A moment later one of the horses whirled and 
dashed out of the herd, and Connie saw that the 


124 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

cowboy whose horse had gone down was running 
beside the horse, with a hand gripping the stirrup 
leather. So fast was the rider urging his horse, 
that the man running beside him had all he could 
do to keep his feet. The next instant a roar of 
laughter went up from a dozen throats, as the 
rider, well clear of the herd, suddenly swerved his 
horse, and the unfortunate runner, not letting go 
in time, rolled heels over head across the buffalo 
grass to the accompaniment of the jeers and jibes 
of his fellows. Connie laughed with the rest, but 
wondered at the spirit of fun that would prompt a 
man to risk life and limb to rescue a comrade from 
the hoofs and horns of the maddened cattle, and 
then seek to break the rescued one’s neck by send¬ 
ing him rolling end over end across the bench. 
But the man got up laughing as hard as the rest, 
and brushing the grass from his hair chaps, he 
mounted his horse that had been led from the 
herd by the second of the two riders who had 
rushed to his aid, and mounting, resumed his work 
as though nothing had happened. 

At eight o’clock in the evening, another meal 
was served, called “cocktail lunch” for want of 
another name, and after that the remuda was 


The Wagons Roll 125 

turned over to the “night hawk,” and the outfit 
went to bed. 

Four o’clock in the morning found them at 
breakfast, and a half hour later, while it was yet 
too dark for Connie to distinguish one horse 
from another, the cowboys were in the corral, 
roping out their saddle horses with unfailing 
accuracy. 

“I don’t see how they can pick out their own 
horses in the dark,” he said, as he stood beside 
the boss who, rope in hand, was waiting his turn 
in the corral. 

“They save the markers for mornin’ circle,” 
explained the boss. “You notice they ain’t none 
of ’em leadin’ out solid color horses. They save 
the bays, an’ blacks, an’ sorrels, an’ greys for 
afternoon circle, an’ herd holdin’. See that horse 
cornin’ out? He’s got two white legs, an’ the one 
Kid is saddlin’ yonder, is a blaze-face, an’ Milk 
River has caught him up a pinto with a big spot 
on his side, an’ Alex is saddlin’ a roach mane 
cayuse, an’ that’s the way it goes, each one pickin’ 
him out a horse that’s marked plain enough to 
tell in the dark. I’ll rope you out one, now—there’s 
one of yourn.” The boss slipped under the rope 


126 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

and flipped his lariat loop over the neck of a bay. 
“See, he’s got three white feet—that’s how I 
know’d him, he’s a marker.” 

Connie rode with the foreman that day, and for 
several days following, and as he rode he took 
pains to absorb every possible detail of the cattle 
business as it presented itself. He learned the 
nester brands, and the brands of the other big 
outfits—no small task when some of these outfits 
like the Bear Paw Pool, and the PU ran from fifty 
to one hundred brands each. 

“What in thunder do they want so many 
brands for?” he asked Harmon one day when 
they ran across a freshly branded PU calf following 
a Block-Dot cow. 

“Them big outfits is built up out of a lot of 
smaller ones,” explained the boss. “They buy up 
some little outfit, an’ then instead of going to the 
trouble of ventin’ the brands an’ brandin’ ’em 
over, they buy brand an’ all an’ let the old stuff 
run with the little outfit’s brand, but they brand 
all the calves with their own brand. After a few 
years the old brands naturally peter out—the beef 
gets shipped, an’ the old cows dies, an’ the young 
stuff all wears PU brands. But in the meantime 


127 


The Wagons Roll 

it sure gives their riders somethin’ to do keeping 
all them brands in their head.” 

Some days Connie would not ride circle, but 
saddling a horse would take a long ride alone. 
And it was on one of these rides that he made the 
acquaintance of another of his neighbors. 

In a dry coulee he had run across a dozen or 
more K-2 cattle. The K -2 brand belonged to 
Mike Campbell, and the Round Seven boys, under 
Harmon’s orders, had been pushing them farther 
and farther from home as they encountered them 
on the range. Campbell was one of the nesters of 
which Grey, the sheep-man, had told him, and 
the boy headed them back and shoved them four 
or five miles toward home. As he rounded a bend 
in a creek-bed he was following he came face to 
face with a rider. The man pulled up, eyed the 
cattle indifferently, as they passed him, and as 
Connie halted his horse beside him, returned the 
boy’s greeting with a nod, threw an overall-clad 
leg over the horn of his saddle, and proceeded to 
roll a cigarette. 

“Sort of shovin’ them critters the wrong way, 
ain’t you ? ” he asked blowing a cloud of smoke into 
the air. 


128 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

Connie grinned: “What makes you think so?” 
he countered. 

“Well, you’re forkin’ a Round Seven horse— 
an’ Round Seven shoves K-2 stuff out , not in. 
Or, mebbe you got turned around. Sort of figgerin’ 
west fer east?” 

“No—I don’t get turned around,” answered the 
boy. “But, what do you care which way the 
Round Seven shoves K-2 cattle?” 

“It sort of makes a little difference in the ridin’ 
I’ve got to do,” answered the man dryly. “My 
name’s Campbell—Mike Campbell, over on Bea¬ 
ver, an’ the K -2 belongs to me.” 

“And mine’s Morgan—Connie Morgan, over on 
Eagle, and the Round Seven belongs to me.” 

“I mistrusted that’s who you was,” replied the 
man, gravely. “Grey told me about you buyin’ 
the outfit. Then, it’s true—what Grey said?” 

“Depends on what he said,” laughed the boy. 

“He said that you was jest a kid, but when you 
got strung out, he reckoned you’d kind of change 
things over to the Round Seven. He said you was 
goin’ after certain parties that has be’n playin’ 
the game both ways from the middle, an’ that 
when the smoke blow’d away us little fellows 





The Wagons Roll 129 

would git a square deal from the Round 
Seven.” 

‘‘Grey told it to you straight,” answered the 
boy. “ For a little while yet your cattle keep on 
getting shoved out. Those are the foreman’s orders, 
and I’ve got good reason for not interfering with 
him till the proper time comes. After that, the 
order will be reversed, and the Round Seven will 
throw nester cattle in —and anything else the 
Round Seven can do to help you, it will be glad to 
do. There’s plenty of room here for all of us, and 
life’s too short to be fighting over nothing.” 

“You said a mouthful, Morgan,” the man 
replied, “I didn’t hardly dast to believe Grey when 
he told me. It’ll make a lot of difference to us little 
fellows to be good friends with the Round Seven. 
An’ they’s ways we kin kind of show we ’predate 
it.” The man glanced about h : m, his eyes sweep¬ 
ing the rim of the valley. “If your good reason 
you was speakin’ about a while back has got some¬ 
thin’ to do with a sage brush corral, down dost to 
the Mizoo, mebbe I kin start in doin’ you a good 
turn previous to the smoke blowin’ away. Facts 
is, I might git in an’ help make some of the smoke, 
if you say so.” 


130 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“You bet I say so!” exclaimed the boy. 
“But, what do you know about the sage brush 
corral?” 

“I know where it’s at—that’s all. Me an’ 
Samuels found it two year ago, an’ we’ve watched 
Harmon slap his own brand on Round Seven 
calves down there. ’Count of it’s bein’ dog eat 
dog, far as we was concerned, we never said nothin’, 
but sometime we aimed to turn what we knew to 
account.” 

“And now’s the time!” cried the boy. “We’ll 
be down there with the wagons in a few days, and 
Harmon will start to work his game—then we will 
get busy.” He paused, and then asked abruptly: 
“Do you know Tex?” 

“What Tex? You mean the one that rides fer 
the Round Seven?” 

“Yes.” 

“Sure, I know him.” 

“Well, he’s at the ranch looking after the 
hospital bunch. You slip over there and tell him 
what you’ve told me, and when the time comes 
we’ll gather in the Harmon gang with the goods 
on ’em.” 

“This here Tex,” said the man. “You sure he’s 



The Wagons Roll 


131 

on the level? You sure he won’t go to Harmon an’ 
spill what he knows?” 

‘‘Dead sure,” answered the boy. ‘‘He’s going 
to be the new foreman of the Round Seven. He’s 
absolutely on the square, and you can save us a 
lot of time in rounding up the cattle thieves, 
because we figured we’d have to hunt for the 
corral. You see, Tex was onto their game, but he 
didn’t know the location of the corral.” 

‘‘All right, Morgan—you can count me in—me 
an’ Samuels, an’ Grey. It’ll sure feel good to be 
livin’ onct more amongst white men!” 


CHAPTER XII 

HARMON SHOWS HIS HAND 

Events shaped themselves much as Tex had 
predicted. The routine of the round-up never 
varied, and the wagons worked gradually into the 
country behind the Little Rockys. 

One day, two weeks after Connie’s meeting with 
Campbell, Harmon pulled out on morning circle 
accompanied by McLaurie, Kid Owens, Milk 
River, Connie and one of the new men. “You 
better drop off an’ ride short circle this momin’,” 
said the foreman, as he rode at Connie’s side. “The 
long circles takes us down into them breaks along 
the bad lands, an’ the way them cayuses is goin’ 
to have to claw up an’ down them ridges, it’s goin’ 
to be all an old hand wants to do to stay on—let 
alone a new beginner.” 

This was the first move in the game. Connie 

132 


Harmon Shows His Hand 


133 


knew instantly that today the calves would be 
run into the sage brush corral, and then left in 
care of the look-out until the cows got tired of 
walking around the fences. The boy never batted 
an eye: ‘‘All right,” he replied, “You say when, 
and we’ll swing in. Who’s going to be my 
partner?” 

Harmon’s eyes swept his riders, as though mak¬ 
ing a choice. “I guess I’ll let Comstock go with 
you,” he answered casually. “He’s a new man on 
the outfit, and these other boys knows the 
country.” 

“I’ll be kind of glad to ride the short circle,” 
said the boy, with a yawn. “This riding every day, 
and all day, gets tiresome when you haven’t been 
at it any longer than I have. I’ve been figuring 
on going back to the ranch for a while to rest 
up.” 

“Couple weeks of rest would do you good,” 
assented the foreman. “You be’n hangin’ right 
to it for quite a spell, now. ’Course us fellows is 
use to it an’ don’t notice it none, but I’ve saw a 
many a pilgrim hit the round-up that didn’t stay 
with it as long as what you have.” 

“I’ll stick along for a few days,” answered the 


i34 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


boy. “And then if I don’t feel rested up, I’ll lay 
off for a while.” 

“Sure. You kin ketch onto us agin when we 
swing in past Bird Tail. We won’t be no more’n 
about fifteen mile from the ranch then.’’ 

A few miles farther on, the foreman drew up 
and indicated the course of the short circle, and 
Connie and Comstock swung back toward the 
wagons. The boy was not in the least surprised 
when the noon herd was worked to find that 
Harmon and the others who had accompanied him 
were still out. It was nearly dark when they ap¬ 
peared without any cattle and turned their horses 
into the remuda. 

“We run onto some of them saddle horses I 
told you was on the range, an’ tried to pick ’em 
up, but they was runnin’ with a bunch that ranges 
down into the bad lands, an’ they run us ragged. 
We never got ’em, at that, an’ we run our horses 
to a frazzle.” 

For five days Connie rode the range, choosing 
short circle and feigning extreme lassitude. The 
sixth day he spent lying in the shade of the bed 
wagon and on the morning of the seventh, saddled 
his horse and pulled out for the ranch. 


Harmon Shows His Hand 


i35 


“Plumb wore out,” grinned Harmon, with a 
wink at Kid Owens. “I sure do hate to lose a hand 
right in the middle of the round-up. But that’s 
the way with them coffee-coolers, they kin come 
an’ go as they like, while us pore cusses has got to 
stay on the job twenty-five hours out of the 
twenty-four. But never mind, I’ll be one myself 
after the beef round-up. An’ that’ll give you a 
chanct to see how good you be at runnin’ the 
Round Seven. If you save up like I done, an’ 
don’t blow yer money, in a few years you kin 
quit, too—an’ maybe we kin throw in together 
an’ have a reg’lar outfit.” 

The two were the last to leave camp that morn¬ 
ing, and as they disappeared over the rim of the 
coulee, Walt Jones, the cook, grinned as he seated 
himself on the wagon tongue with a paring knife 
in his hand and a half bushel of spuds at his 
feet. 

“Plumb wore out,” he repeated. “Didn’t eat 
no more’n four meals yesterday, an’ nibbled along 
at his breakfast this momin’, not bein’ able to 
put no more’n two cuts of pie on top of a pound 
of steer an’ a double helpin’ of fried spuds.” One 
after another the potatoes, stripped of their peel- 



136 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


ing, splashed into the boiler of water at his side. 
“I ain’t wised up to this kid, yet, but I know 
Harmon’s game, all right. An’, believe me, if I 
was him I’d be right now headin’ straight acrost 
the flats, an’ you couldn’t see me fer dust till I’d 
crossed the Rio Grande! This here sudden on wee 
that’s afflictin’ the big boss ain’t no idle jest, as 
the feller says, an’ I’m a sheep-herder if that head 
of his’n ain’t more useful than jest a combination 
hair meadow an’ hatrack.” He paused and spat 
accurately upon the spiney pad of a prickly pear, 

Harmon aims to be a coffee cooler after the beef 
round-up, but I’ll miss my guess if he don’t start 
in coolin’ coffee right in the middle of the calf 
round-up—an’ some more along with him—an’ 
the State of Montany’ll pay fer the coffee.” 

Tex was just turning a little bunch of old cows 
into the big pasture when Connie hailed him from 
the rim of the bench. A few minutes later he joined 
the cowboy and together they rode toward the 
ranch house, Tex listening while Connie detailed 
the events of the round-up. 

“Don’t let on to Canary or Tombstone,” he 
cautioned, as they approached the corral where 


Harmon Shows His Hand 137 


the two ranch hands were unharnessing their 
teams. “I don’t know how they stand, and any¬ 
how there’s a whole lot of things a man can’t blab 
if he don’t know ’em. I seen McLaughlin the 
other day, an’ it’s all fixed with him an’ Hall to 
come a-runnin’ when I yelp. Tomorrow we’ll ride 
over an’ pick up Campbell an’ Samuels an’ then 
in the evenin’ we’ll meet up with the sheriff an’ the 
stock inspector over to Lloyd an’ from there we’ll 
all make a night ride down along the edge of the 
bad (ands an’ hole up in some mud crack where we 
can hear them old cows bawlin’.” 

‘ ‘ Did Campbell see you ? ’ ’ 

“Yup.” 

“How about Grey? He wanted to be in on it, 
too.” 

“We don’t need him,” answered Tex. “Grey, 
he’s got him a wife an’ kids. An’ if things should 
happen to git rough down there it ain’t no use of 
him gittin’ plugged. It don’t make no difference 
about us fellows—but I’d hate to see anything 
happen to Grey. They’ve had a hard enough 
time a-ready.” 

“Aren’t Campbell and Samuels married?” 

“Campbell ain’t, an’ Samuels—well, Samuels, 


138 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


he wishes he wasn’t. Roundin’ up rustlers will be 
a plumb restful an’ peaceable vacation for him, 
his daily life bein’ turbulent an’ tribulatious to an 
extent it makes common gun-play look tranquil 
an’ placid.” 

The two put up their horses and entering the 
ranch house, Tex went immediately to the tele¬ 
phone and rang Red Bank. “Hello, Sally!” he 
called into the transmitter, “Say, Sally, you see 
if you can get holt of McLaughlin an’ tell him to 
call up Tex at the Round Seven, will you? All 
right, the quicker, the sooner—much obliged.” 
Tex lighted the fire in the cook stove, and set the 
kettle to boil. Presently the telephone bell rang, 
“Two long an’ three short. That’s us!” Tex 
picked up the receiver: “Hello, Mac. Yeh, this 
is Tex. Say, Mac, you still want to sell that buck¬ 
skin? . . . Well, I might. He ain’t much ’count, 
but if you happen to be cornin’ out into the moun¬ 
tains tomorrow, jest fetch him along, an’ I’ll meet 
you at Lloyd along about dark. There’s five 
different men try in’ to sell me a horse. If you see 
Dave Hall ask him if he’s got me a brand figgered 
out, yet. I’m lookin’ for a horse that’ll pack a 
man an’ his blankets an’ a couple days’ grub. 


Harmon Shows His Hand 


139 


The new boss here is lookin’ for one too, an’ so is 
Mike Campbell, an’ Samuels. If yer cayuse is all 
right, you can get rid of him easy, even if you an’ 
me can’t dicker. So long.” 

“Well, that’s that,” said the cowboy, as he 
dipped some flour from the barrel. 

“But, you didn’t tell him anything about 
Harmon!” said Connie. 

Tex grinned: “I told him all he wants to know. 
You see, with these here party lines, if you got 
any particular business that ain’t for general pub¬ 
lication, you got to kind of Agger a round about 
way of sayin’ it. There’s eighteen different ranches 
strung along that wire an’ every time a phone 
rings every one dives for the receiver. Why, jest 
while I was talkin’, I heard twelve different suppers 
fryin’, besides Hansen’s baby squealin’, an’ Kear- 
ful’s phony graft.” 

“But, the sherrif won’t come clear out to Lloyd 
just to sell a horse, will he?” 

“No. But, he’ll be there. You see what I told 
him was that the rustlers was to work, an’ there 
was five of ’em, an’ he’d need his blankets an’ a 
couple days’ grub, an’ he needn’t bother to bring 
no one else along except Dave Hall, ’cause there’d 


140 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


be me, an’ you, an’ Samuels, an’ Mike Campbell 
waitin’ for him. The way I told it to him none of 
them folks that was hornin’ in to get ’em an’ ear¬ 
ful of someone else’s business can tip it off to Har¬ 
mon. All they could savvy was me an’ McLaugh¬ 
lin raggin’ about a private horse trade.” Tex 
sliced boiled potatoes into the frying pan and added 
a generous portion of bacon grease. The door 
opened to admit the two ranch hands. “Here, 
you Canary, mix up a batch of sinkers, an’ Tomb¬ 
stone, you shovel a couple handfuls of Java into 
that coffee pot, an’ then fetch in an armful of fire¬ 
wood. We’ll have supper ready in about two 
jerks. Hello, two shorts, a long, an’ a short. That’s 
Two Dot’s ring.” Tex beat Canary to the tele¬ 
phone by an arm’s reach, and noiselessly lifting the 
receiver placed it to his ear. Five minutes of 
silence followed, and the cowboy returned the 
receiver to its hook. 

“Two of Jerry Kearful’s kids has got the 
measles, an’ that black colt of his et somethin’ an’ 
he’s all bloated up. Mrs. Two Dot’s goin’ down 
to Kearful’s Sunday an’ stay an’ help take care 
of the kids.” 

“Prob’ly ain’t measles,” opined the doleful 


Harmon Shows His Hand 


141 

Tombstone. “Prob’ly small poxt. They’ll die, an* 
Mm. Two Dot, she’ll git it an’ spread it up an* 
down the crick. I had it onct.” 

“You couldn’t of had it!” exclaimed Canary, 
scrutinizing Tombstone’s face. “I know’d a feller 
onct that had it, an’ his face looks like some one 
had busted him one with a charge of bird shot.” 

“I did, too!” vociferously maintained Tomb¬ 
stone. Although inseparable cronies, these two 
were engaged in petty bickerings from daylight 
to dark. “Guess I’d ort to know. Down on the 
Musselshell, it was. I was hayin’ for the Big Six 
outfit, an’ the foreman sent twenty mile fer a 
doctor. He was a good doctor, too—jest as good 
on folks as he was on horses an’ cattle, an’ sheeps, 
an’ besides that he was a blacksmith. Cost me 
five dollars, so you might know he wasn’t no bum 
doctor.” 

“He soaked you. It wasn’t worth more’n two.” 

“Oh, I don’t know'. I figger it ort to be worth 
five dollars to a man to git his life saved. I can’t 

t 

have small poxt no more, but you fellers kin. 
Chances is, you’ll have it bad an’ I’ll have to hay 
them cattle alone, besides stoppin’ to do all the 
cookin’ an’ bury you all to boot. Wisht the boys 


142 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

was back off the round-up. An’ that colt of 
Kearful’s, chances is, he can’t save him. When 
they git the bloats, it’s all up with ’em. He’d ort 
to give him sody, an’ milk, an’ turpentine shuck 
up in a quart bottle.” 

“Why don’t you tell him, if you know so much. 
His ring is a long an’ a short, an’ a long.” 

Tombstone advanced to the instrument and 
gave the required ring. “Hello, Kearful, is that 
you? Heard how yer kids has got the small poxt 
. . . What, measles? That’s what you think, but 
it sounds to me like the small poxt. I’d ort to 
know, I had it . . . Do fer it? Give ’em some 
medicine, an’ put ’em to bed, an’ burn the bed an’ 
their clothes . . . What kind of medicine? What 
kind you got? Well give ’em that, then. Chances 
is, if you wait till you git some other kind, they’ll 
die on you. An’ that there black colt that’s 
bloated, you better give him a dost of sody, an’ 
milk, an’ turpentine. Git about a quart of it 
down him . . . You ain’t got no turpentine? Well, 
you might try kerosene, then . . . You’re wel¬ 
come. Good bye.” 

“It’s sure comfortin’, livin’ way out here like 
we do,” said Tex, with an elaborate wink at 


Harmon Shows His Hand 


i43 

Connie, “to know we got a good doctor right here 
in the house.” 

“I s’pose you think I don’t know nothin’ about 
doctorin’,” said Tombstone, “but, I doctored a 
bloated horse onct with sody, an’ milk, an’ 
turpentine.” 

“Yeh, but not kerosene,” grinned Tex. “How 
come you told him kerosene?” 

“You got to use yer head, doctorin’, same as 
anything else. You use turpentine fer thinnin’ 
out paint, don’t you? Well, one time we was 
paintin’ a barn, an’ we run out of turpentine, an’ 
we thinned the paint with kerosene, an’ that shows 
they’re about alike, don’t it?” 

“Guess so,” admitted Tex. “Did the horse you 
doctored get well?” 

“No, he died. But, that’s the way with sick 
horses. All you kin do is give ’em what you got 
handy, an’ if their time’s come they’ll die anyhow, 
an’ if it ain’t they’ll git well. Come on, supper’s 
ready.” 

It was a rather grim-faced group of horsemen 
that pulled out of the little town of Lloyd the 
following evening, and struck southward through 


144 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

the mountains. The moon rose as they rounded 
the shoulder of Saw Tooth and pushed out into 
the open country to the south-eastward. At the 
edge of the bad lands, Mike Campbell took the 
lead and for several miles the others followed in 
silence as the nester skirted the heads of innum¬ 
erable draws and coulees that led into the maze 
of mud cracks and pinnacles and barren ridges 
that comprise the bad lands. The lop-sided moon 
was almost directly over head when the man 
turned abruptly into a dry wash that soon became 
a well defined coulee, and later a canyon with 
perpendicular sides of disintegrating rock. For 
miles the night horsemen followed the tortuous 
winding of the canyon, whose floor was bare, and 
dry, and hard as the paved street of a city. Mouths 
of innumerable connecting canyons yawned black 
on either side, and as he rode behind the sheriff, 
Connie realized why it was that the bad lands had 
become a refuge and a sanctuary for outlaws and 
hunted men. For they consisted of an intricate 
network of canyons and mud cracks, the almost 
total lack of feed and water for horses, and the 
fact that very few men besides the outlaws them¬ 
selves, knew the bad lands, and those few were 


Harmon Shows His Hand 145 

ranchers and cowboys who lived nearby, and who 
did not dare to act as guides to any posse the 
sheriff might lead in, for the reason that the out¬ 
laws would have retaliated by ambushing them at 
the very first opportunity. 

It was into one of the yawning side canyons 
that Mike Campbell turned after a couple of hours 
of riding through the darkness. The sides of this 
new canyon, whose general direction was east and 
west, were less abrupt than those of the main 
canyon, and here and there upon their surface, 
Connie could see patches of coarse bunch grass. 
An hour later the guide halted, the others drew in 
beside him, and all sat in silence broken only by 
the creak of saddle leather, and the occasional 
movement of a horse. After some moments a 
sound was borne to their ears upon the soft night 
wind. It was the bawling of a far-off cow. Another 
cow joined in, and then another, and Dave Hall, 
the stock inspector nodded to McLaughlin. 

“We’re in time, all right,” said the sheriff. “It’ll 
be anyway a day or two yet before the cows will 
quit the corral. But, in the meantime, what are 
we goin’ to do fer water an’ horse feed?” 

For answer, Campbell started his horse, and a 


146 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

few minutes later, led the party into a shallow 
buffalo grass basin formed by the widening of the 
walls of the canyon. “Here’s feed, an’ over yonder 
about twenty rod, there’s a spring of good water. 
We can lay here fer a week if we need to. Harmon’s 
corral is about four mile due east of here, on a 
thick sage flat. We’re almost on the edge of the 
bad lands, but fer enough in so they won’t no one 
be botherin’ us, an’ near enough so we can hear 
when them cows quits bellerin’. They’s a rock 
pinnacle about a half a mile from here, where we 
can post a lookout. They’ve got to cross a couple 
of miles of flat where the sage is thin before they 
git to the corral, an’ we kin watch ’em go in.” 

The spring proved to be of ample proportion for 
the needs of the party. After each had satisfied 
his thirst, Campbell filled an ample coffee-pot, 
and a kettle, the horses were unsaddled, watered, 
hobbled, and turned loose to feed. 

“We got to do all our cookin’ at night,” said 
Campbell. “We can hide the blaze easy enough, 
but that there lookout at the corral might see our 
smoke if we build a fire daytimes.” The water 
from the spring flowed for a few rods across the 
basin before becoming completely absorbed by the 


Harmon Shows His Hand 147 


thirsty ground. Along this tiny watercourse a 
scrubby growth of cottonwood, chokecherry, and 
a stunted bull pine or two had sprung up, and it 
was upon this meagre source of supply that Camp¬ 
bell drew for his firewood. After a meal of bacon, 
store bread, and coffee, the tired men spread their 
blankets on the grass, and soon were fast asleep. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE SAGE BRUSH CORRAL 

It was a long and tedious wait—the three days 
the little party spent in the buffalo grass basin. 
For the first two days and nights the bawling of 
the cows told them that there was no use in even 
posting a lookout. On the morning of the third 
day, although the wind blew gently from the east¬ 
ward, no sound came from the direction of the 
sage brush corral. 

“They’ll be along, prob’ly, to-day, or to-mor¬ 
row,” predicted Campbell. “They ain’t goin’ to 
leave them calves onbranded no longer’n what 
they have to. Guess I’ll jest slip over to that 
pinnacle an’ keep an’ eye out fer ’em.” 

After the noon luncheon, McLaughlin relieved 

Campbell, and he in turn was relieved by Tex at 

supper time. It was nearly dark when the cowboy 

returned to the basin. “Well, they’re over there,” 

he announced. “Four of ’em drifted acrost the 

148 


149 


The Sage Brush Corral 

flats. That would be Harmon an’ Kid Owens, an’ 
Milk River, an’ Alex. Countin’ the lookout, that 
makes five, to our six.” 

“How do you figure ’em, Tex?” asked Mc¬ 
Laughlin. “You know ’em better than we 
do.” 

“The only real bad actor in the bunch, as far as 
gun play goes, would be Kid Owens. Harmon, 
he’s yellow, when you get right down to cases, an’ 
so’s Alex. Milk River, he might back up the Kid’s 
play if he thought there was a chance to get away 
with it, an’ I don’t know the lookout, but I reckon 
he’s a sort of a ranch hand that Harmon’s got 
workin’ over on his claim, so we don’t need to 
worry about him.” 

“You think the Kid would really try to start 
something?” said Hall. 

Tex grinned: “He’s like a broncho—he’s got a 
lot of guts, but no brains. He packs one gun in a 
holster, an’ another tucked away in the front of his 
shirt. So, if you ever tangle up with him, jest 
remember to keep your eye on his other hand. 
He’s one of these kind that thinks Billy the Kid, 
an’ Jesse James, an’ the Dalton boys was real men. 
He ain’t all bad, the Kid ain’t. He’d give you the 



150 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


shirt off his back, if he likes you. He’s got a bad 
start, that’s all—he’s a fool.” 

“Bad start makes a good endin’, as the sayin’ 
goes,” reminded Hall. 

“Well, then the Kid’ll be a bishop—if he don’t 
get hung first, or shot,” laughed the cowboy. 
‘ ‘ But when the time comes for the show-down over 
there in the sage brush, you better leave the Kid 
to me. I’m onto his curves—an’ he knows it. 
Chances are we oan get out without any gun 
play.” 

“How you figgerin’ on workin’ it, Mac?” asked 
Campbell. 

“’Cordin’ to the lay of the land,” replied the 
sheriff. “How close can we get to the corral 
without bein’ spotted by the lookout?” 

“By keepin’ to the coulees we kin git to within 
a quarter of a iffile on the horses, without our heads 
showin’, above the rims. After that it’s jest a 
question of crawlin’ up through the sage. Me an’ 
Samuels slipped up to within ten rod, last year, 
an’ layed an’ watched ’em brand the whole batch.” 

‘ 4 Why didn’t you report them ? ’ ’ asked the sheriff. 

Campbell shrugged: “They wasn’t my calves 
they was brandin’. An’ what’s more, I’ve got my 




The Sage Brush Corral 151 

full growth by mindin’ my own business. S’pose 
somethin’ would of slipped when it come to the 
trial. It would of be’n their word agin ourn. An’ 
he would of had a whole roundup to swear him an 
alibi—where’d I be’n after they turned him loose? ” 

“We’ll get them with the goods this time,” said 
McLaughlin. “They’ll start brandin’ in the 
mornin’, an’ we’ll let ’em go till they’ve got a 
bunch finished, an’ close in on ’em. I want to 
make the sneak so when the showdown comes we’ll 
have every man of ’em covered with a rifle. They 
ain’t no one fool enough to make a gun play in the 
face of a rifle, an’ I’d sooner no one got hurt.” 

Breakfast the following morning was eaten in 
silence, the horses saddled, and in silence, the little 
band of horsemen followed Mike Campbell who 
led them up a winding coulee toward the east¬ 
ern edge of the bad lands. There was no wind, 
and the sun shone brightly. Gradually the 
monotonous barrens of disintegrating black and 
red rock gave place to stretches of alkali soil. 
Patches of sage, prickly pear, and buffalo grass 
indicated that they were drawing near to the 
place where the bad lands and the cattle range 
merged. The coulee grew steadily shallower. Its 


152 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


walls gave place to slanting banks, and at length 
Mike Campbell halted and swung to the ground. 

“We got to leave the horses here,” he explained, 
“An’ make our sneak a-foot. The corral is only a 
quarter of a mile, straight ahead an’ the lookout’s 
on that big red rock pinnacle to the right. I caught 
a whiff of the brandin’ a minute ago, so we better 
sail in an’ finish the job.” 

McLaughlin stepped forward: ‘ ‘ All right, boys. 
You all understand what we’re up against. No 
gun play unless it’s necessary. If we can crawl 
clean to the corral fence, so much the better. I’ll 
cover Harmon. Hall will handle Alex. Camp¬ 
bell will cover Milk River, an’ Tex will look after 
Kid Owens. Samuels, you make your sneak on 
the lookout, an’ that will leave Morgan to line ’em 
up, an’ collect their artillery. We’ll all stick close 
together so if there is any shootin’ we won’t be 
pluggin’ each other through the sage. You all 
savvy?” 

Each man nodded his understanding of the 
orders, and Tex looked dolefully at his boots. 
“This here travelin’ afoot ain’t what it’s cracked 
up to be.” 

The sheriff grinned; and stepping to his saddle, 


The Sage Brush Corral 


i53 


unrolled the slicker from its place behind the cantle: 
“I mistrusted you boys mightn’t be figurin’ on 
any foot work, so I brought these.” He tossed 
a half dozen pairs of beaded moccasins onto the 
ground. “Run acrost an Injun peddlin’ ’em in 
Lloyd,” he explained. 

“For a sheriff, you’ve got oncommon sense, 
Mac,” laughed Tex, and seating himself on the 
ground pulled off his boots. The others followed 
his example, and soon all were ready for the trail. 
“Look out for prickly pears,” cautioned Mc¬ 
Laughlin, “An’ be sure an’ keep the brush between 
you an’ that pinnacle. If that lookout should spot 
us, it would be all off. We could never get back 
to the horses before they’d got plumb out of the 
country.” 

Very slowly and carefully the men made their 
way through the tall sage brush. Now and then 
it was necessary to crawl on hands and knees 
across spaces where the sage was low, but for the 
most part, they walked erect, their soft moccasins 
making no sound on the grey alkali soil. The 
smell and the sounds of the branding were in the 
air. The acrid smell of sage smoke blended with 
the odor of burned hair and hide, and the bawling 


i54 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


of calves was punctuated now and then by the 
voices of men. Once a burst of laughter rang out. 
Campbell halted suddenly, and dropping to their 
hands and knees, the others crawled forward and 
peered through the sage. Twenty yards away 
was what seemed to be a solid barrier of sage brush, 
and from behind this barrier, issued the sounds of 
the branding. 

“Where’s the gate?” whispered McLaughlin. 

Campbell shook his head: “Never was dost 
enough to see. They built a wire corral an’ wove 
brush into it. You couldn’t see it, if you didn’t 
know it was there.” 

“We’ve got to crawl up an’ shove our guns 
through it,” McLaughlin whispered. “We can’t 
reach over the top. Come on!” 

Silently they crept forward, and a moment later 
the muzzles of four rifles were thrust through four 
apertures in the sage brush that was loosely woven 
between the wires of the fence. Connie, service 
revolver in hand, looked into the corral through 
an aperture close beside McLaughlin. So intent 
were the men upon their work that not one of them 
was aware of the fact that he was covered by a rifle. 
What the boy saw was a small fire tended by Alex 


The Sage Brush Corral 155 

McLaurie. Harmon and Milk River were holding 
down a calf while Kid Owens applied the red hot 
branding iron to its side. A puff of ill-smelling 
smoke from the burning hair and hide rose into the 
air to the accompaniment of a bellow of pain from 
the calf. The Kid, and Harmon straightened up, 
and Milk River slackened his rope which the calf 
kicked from his hind legs as he scrambled to his feet 
and rejoined the herd that crowded the opposite 
side of the corral. 

The voice of McLaughlin cut sharply: “Stick 
’em up!” 

The eyes of the four men in the corral flew to the 
fence where four rifle barrels protruded into the 
corral. Harmon’s face was ghastly pale as he 
elevated both hands high above his head. Alex 
McLaurie’s mouth worked nervously, and Connie 
noticed that the hands he held upward trembled 
violently. Milk River Bill’s hands were up, too, 
and his eyes wandered from the row of rifle muzzles 
to rest on the figure of Kid Owens who stood 
grinning, with his thumbs hooked into the belt 
of his chaps. “Up with ’em, Kid!” The voice of 
Tex sounded harsh: “I’m tendin’ to your case. 
No monkey work. I know all about the gun in yer 


156 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


shirt. Reach up, now, or I’ll have to plug you!” 

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” sneered the Kid, as he 
raised his hands slowly. “You got the drop on me 
this time, but you wait!” 

“Find the gate,” said McLaughlin to Connie, 
“an’ go in an’ take their guns.” 

A moment later the boy entered the corral, 
closing the gate behind him, and walking straight 
to Kid Owens, thrust his hand into his shirt front, 
and drew out a gun. Lifting the other gun from 
the Kid’s holster, he moved on to Harmon, taking 
care to pass behind the Kid, so as not to obstruct 
Tex’s aim for so much as a second. One after 
another he relieved the men of their weapons, and 
lined them up beside the Kid. Tossing the five 
revolvers over the fence, he covered the unarmed 
men with his own gun. “Come on in!” he called 
to the rifle men, and a moment later all four 
entered the corral. 

Still sneering Kid Owens addressed Tex “So 
you’re to blame fer this, eh? I s’pose you’ll be 
foreman of the Round Seven, now. I hope you 
like the job. I hope you like it good enough so’s 
you’ll hang onto it till they turn me loose agin. 
It won’t be so long—even if they git me to Deer 



The Sage Brush Corral 157 


Lodge, which I’m doubtin’, unless McLaughlin’s 
got more brains than he looks like he has. Two to 
twenty years fer rustlin’ an’ I’ll draw a light one, 
bein’ my first offense, an’ only a helper at that. 
Prob’ly about three years, an’ three months a 
year off fer good behavior. That ain’t so long—an 
when I git out the first thing I’ll do will be to ride 
down here an’ git you! An’ you, too!” he cried, 
turning to Campbell. “What you hornin’ in on 
this fer? We ain’t branded none of your calves. 
I ain’t blaim’ Hall an’ the shuriff, it’s their busi¬ 
ness to go after rustlers. An’ I ain’t blamin’ the 
big boss, cause they’re his calves. But, you two 
dirty pups! I’ll make you hunt your holes a 
couple of years from now.” 

“Shut up!” commanded McLaughlin, “You’ve 
just about spoke your piece. You ain’t helpin’ 
your case none, by shootin’ off yer mouth. Stick 
yer hands behind yer back, now while I slip these 
bracelets on.” 

“Chain mine in front. I want to roll a 
cigareet.” 

“Who’s doin’ this?” snapped the sheriff, as he 
handcuffed the Kid’s wrists behind him. The 
others submitted without a word, McLaurie 


158 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

trembling so that the chains rattled on the 
handcuffs. 

‘‘What’s the matter, Bob, you look like you’d 
heard bad news?” grinned the irrepressible Kid. 
“Look at all the time you’ll git off fer good be¬ 
havior. Let’s see, three months a year fer twenty 
years, why that’s five whole years. Gee, if I had 
that much time off, the State would be owin’ me 
two or three years.” 

“B-but, that 1-leaves fif-fifteen years,” stam¬ 
mered Harmon, hopelessly, his voice husky with 
terror. 

“They never will turn me, loose,” blubbered 
McLaurie, “I done time onct before.” 

“You won’t have to worry about a job, then,” 
laughed the Kid. “Me—when they turn me 
loose, I’ll give ’em somethin’ to outlaw me for!” 
He glanced meaningly at Tex, who finished rolling 
a cigarette, and thrust the end into the Kid’s 
mouth. 

“You talk like a fool,” he said, quietly, holding a 
match to the cigarette, “But, I’ll be here when you 
want me.” 

The stock inspector who had been walking 
through the herd of calves joined the others: 



The Sage Brush Corral 159 

“Close to a hundred head,” he reported, “an’ 
about twenty of ’em branded. That left handed 
iron ain’t so bad, Harmon. It makes a pretty 
good Heart Bar.” He produced a notebook and 
pencil from his pocket, and started for the calves 
again. “About three of you fellows come with 
me,” he said. Connie, Campbell and the sheriff 
followed him, leaving Tex to guard the prisoners. 
Hall made several notes in his book, and pointed 
to a calf. “ See that critter they branded ? He’s 
got two white legs, an’ half his face is white, an’ a 
white saddle acrost his withers.” The three 
nodded, and Hall passed to another calf whose 
markings he recorded, and called the attention of 
the three to them. One after another he recorded 
every branded calf in the herd. 

“What you doin’ that fer?” asked Kid Owens, 
querilously, as the four concluded the work. 

Hall grinned: “Oh, that’s fer your special 
benefit, Kid,” he said. “You think you’re a bad 
actor—an’ you would be if you was to be turned 
loose about the time you figure on. But you 
won’t be. You’re pretty smart about dopin’ out 
how long a stretch you’d draw, an’ when they’d 
let you go. You think you’re a wise guy, but you 


i6o Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


ain’t wise—not a little bit. Yer runnin’ off at the 
head, makin’ cracks about cornin’ back onto this 
range an’ gittin’ some folks has cost you some- 
wheres around forty years in the pen.” 

“What do you mean?” the question snapped 
out without the accompanying sneer. Plainly 
the stock inspector’s strange actions, and his 
words had caused the Kid a sudden uneasiness. 

“I mean that when it comes to your case, we’ll 
just make each one of those calves a separate 
offense. You’ll draw from three to five years for 
each one of ’em—an’ there’s just twenty.” 

“You can’t do it!” shrilled the Kid, a sudden 
panic taking possession of him. He started to his 
feet, his face livid. “You can’t do that!” 

“Can’t we?” sneered Hall, “You wait an’ see. 
You an’ Harmon will be gittin’ out about the 
same time—an’ you’ll both be old men. By that 
time the cattle range will be gone, an’ there’ll be 
a string of farms up an’ down Eagle. Harmon, 
here, we’ll just bunch his in two lots—the ones 
he branded this year, an’ the ones he’s branded 
before. He’ll get about twenty years apiece. 
Hello! Here comes Samuels with the lookout!” 

The nester appeared at the gate of the corral, a 




The Sage Brush Corral 161 


dejected looking man preceding him, hands ele¬ 
vated above his head. A moment later the hand 
cuffs snapped about his wrists, and he took his 
place beside the others. 

McLaughlin spoke to Tex: “You skip back 
an’ get your brandin’ iron, an’ we’ll get busy an’ 
vent these critters, an’ rebrand ’em an’ turn ’em 
loose. Then some one better cross the river an’ 
see what you can find over on Harmon’s ranch. 
I’ll deputize Campbell an’ Samuels to help me get 
these birds down to Benton. The Grand Jury’s 
settin’ now, an’ I want to get this case before 
’em.” 

Tex returned with the horses, and loosening the 
iron from his saddle built up the fire and thrust it in. 
The venting and branding occupied two or three 
hours, and when it was finished the corral gates 
were opened and the calves turned out on the range. 

The horses of the five prisoners were tied to¬ 
gether, and the manacled men secured by tying 
their ankles beneath the horse’s belly. 

As they were about to start, Kid Owens called 
to the inspector: “Say, Hall, I was only kiddin’, 
about cornin’ back here an’ gettin’ Tex an’ Camp¬ 
bell—honest I was.” 


162 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Tell that to the pardon board,” retorted the 
inspector. “You made your crack—now, don’t 
welch on it. An’ what’s more you’re lyin’ when you 
say you was only kiddin’. You’ve got a bad eye, 
an’ a bad heart, an’ I’m goin’ to see that you get 
put where you can’t harm no one. Montana’s 
had enough of your kind. The quicker we git shut 
of varmints like you, the quicker we’ll have a 
peaceable an’ law-abidin’ State. Trouble with you 
is, you was born too late. Montana’s got tired of 
the rough stuff. I’ve knocked around the range 
from cow pun chin’ up to the job I’ve got, for goin’ 
on twenty years, an’ I know that ninety-nine out 
of every hundred of the boys on the range is law- 
abidin’ an’ peaceful—an’ always was. It’s the 
hundredth man—like you, that’s always made the 
trouble—an’ the boobs back east hear about it 

> 

an’ think we’re all like that. They’re so blamed 
ignorant that they can’t see that there’s more 
rough stuff pulled in any one of their big cities 
every year than has ever be’n pulled in the west 
from the time the first cow outfit started. But, 
believe me the wild west ain’t goin’ to git no free 
advertisin’ out of you for quite a spell to come. 
So long. See you at the trial.” 



CHAPTER XIV 


THE “GREENNESS” OF CONNIE MORGAN 

Sending Tex to take charge of the round-up, 
Connie accompanied Hall to the Missouri where 
they ferried the horses across on the clumsy flat- 
float that Harmon used to transport his stolen 
stock to the other side. For three days the two 
rode the range south of the big river, where the 
stock inspector, an expert with the rope, caught, 
threw, and examined the brands of dozens of 
Heart Bar cattle. 

“Harmon was playin’ it high wide, an’ 

han’some,” he said, as toward the evening of the 

third day they drew near the home ranch of the 

big TN outfit. “Not only brandin’ calves with 

his left handed brandin’ iron, but finishin’ out 

your brand into a Heart Bar on old stuff with a 

runnin’ iron. I ain’t found a single one of the 

Heart Bars yet that ain’t be’n worked. He’s 

163 


164 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


stole everything he owns. Best way out of it for 
you is to hire the TN round-up to gather all the 
Heart Bar stuff an’ hold it for you. It’ll cost you 
twice as much if you send your own outfit over here 
an’ they wouldn’t know the range as well, either. 
I know Bob Dye, the foreman, an’ I’ll give him the 
order. He wouldn’t have no right to pick up 
Heart Bar stuff on your say-so, without authority 
from me. It’ll only cost you a dollar-an’-a-half 
a head, an’ they’ll hold ’em inside their fences till 
you send for ’em. Then I’ll fix it so you can vent 
an’ re-brand right there. Then you can get ’em 
back acrost the river an’ turn ’em loose on their 
own range without trailin’ ’em clean back to your 
home ranch.” 

The two passed the night at the TN, and the 
business concluded, headed northward, crossed the 
river at Clagett, and pushed on to the Round 
Seven ranch, where after a night’s rest the stock 
inspector bid the boy good bye and went on to 
look into another case that would take him over 
into the Highwoods. 

The following morning Connie saddled his horse, 
and rode down to the south pasture where he 
pulled up beside the stack where the man who 



Harmon’s face was ghastly pale as he elevated both hands high 

above his head 





“Greenness” of Connie Morgan 165 


called himself Wadell was loading hay onto his 
wagon. 

“So you’re the new owner of the Round Seven, 
eh?” asked the man, after he had acknowledged 
Connie’s greeting. “Quite a job you’ve tackled, 
not to be no older’n what you be, an’ green to 
boot.” 

“Yes, quite a job.” 

“How’d you like it, fur’s you’ve got?” 

“Fine. It won’t be long, now, before I’ll have a 
good outfit here.” 

“That there foreman of yourn, Bob Harmon, 
he’s onto all the wrinkles of the cow business.” 

Evidently the news of Harmon’s arrest had not 
reached Eagle Creek. “He sure is,” agreed the 
boy, heartily, “And there’s quite a lot of wrinkles 
that need smoothing out.” 

The man shot him a shifty glance: ‘ ‘ Meanin ’ ? ” 

“Well, for one thing, meaning that there are 

too many little oufits along the creeks to suit 

^_ *» 
me. 

The man grinned: “That’s what ails the 
Round Seven,” he agreed. “The water’s gitten 
fenced in on you.” He leaned on his pitchfork 
and winked knowingly: “Grey’s alfalfy’s up 


166 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


about a foot high, a’ready,” he confided, “An’ the 
blame fool’s gone to work an’ built up that west 
fence of his’n agin.” 

“Yes, what of it?” 

“Why, don’t you know the game Bob worked on 
him last year? He run a lot of hungry an thirsty 
steers up agin that fence, an’ left ’em. It didn’t 
take ’em long to lay the fence flat an’ clean up the 
alfalfy. You better slip the word to Bob to have 
his steers handy. ’Cause I figger Grey thinks 
he’ll slip one over on you by cuttin’ early this year. 
Grey, he’s pretty dost to the edge. Ruin his hay 
on him this year, an’ you got him. That’ll be one 
little outfit out of the way.” 

“Yes,” answered the boy, “That’ll be one. 
And, you’re the next.” 

“That’s right,” grinned the man, “I’m the 
next. It ain’t goin’ to be no trouble fer us to deal. 
I don’t aim to hold you up, like some would. All 
I want is a reasonable price fer my claim.” 

“What do you figure a reasonable price?” 

“Well—seein’ how my land lays, up an’ down 
the crick, it ort to be worth six thousan’ dollars— 
an’ that’s jest about givin’ it away.” 


“That includes everything—sheep, and all?” 



“Greenness” of Connie Morgan 167 


The man laughed uproariously: “Quit yer 
jokin ! Sheep an’ all! There’s two thousan’ 
wethers in that band, worth anyhow seven dollars 
a head right where they’re at. Say, you was jokin’, 
wasn’t you. You ain’t as green as all that?” 

“Pretty green, I guess,” smiled the boy. “So 
that just includes the land ? Any improvements ? ’ ’ 

“Nothin’, what you might call improvements, 
except a two-wire fence.” 

“How long have you lived there?” 

“Not so very long.” 

“How long?” 

“I moved on early this spring.” 

4 4 Where are your claim papers ? ’ ’ 

“Down to the tent. I ain’t had time to even 
put up a shack.” 

“Let’s go down and look them over.” 

“All right. Wait till I finish out this load. It 
won’t take but a few more forkfuls.” 

Connie followed as the man drove to the sheep 
corral where he climbed off the hay load. Dis¬ 
mounting the boy followed him into the tent, 
where seating himself on a box beside a rude table, 
Wadell fumbled in his war bag. Straightening 
up, he tossed a thick official envelope upon the 



168 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


table, and the boy examined its contents. After a 
while he looked up. “How much did it cost you 
to file?” he asked. 

“Sixteen dollars an’ a half, fer the homestead, 
an* forty fer the desert, an’ forty fer the wife’s 
desert.” 

“Where is your wife?” 

“She ain’t come on, yet. She’s visitin’ down to 
her folks on the Musselshell.” 

“That’s ninety-six dollars and a half,” said the 
boy. ‘ ‘ You’ve been here say three months, and you 
want six thousand ? Pretty good profit, isn’t it ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s the fencin’. An’ 
besides it ain’t what the land’s worth now, it’s 
what it will be. It’s worth that much to you, jest 
to hold the water.” 

4 ‘ What’s the fence worth ? ’’ 

‘‘Well, there’s a couple hundred dollars worth of 
wire, an’ puttin’ it up, not to say nothin’ about the 
posts, an’ the haulin’.” 

“Where did you get the wire, and who hauled it, 
and who built your fence?” 

The man hesitated a moment before replying: 
“Where d’you s’pose I got it? Picked it offen 
trees?” 


“Greenness” of Connie Morgan 169 


“I’m not here to suppose. I’m here to find out, 
and I’m going to find out, so you might as well tell 
me. I want to know where you got that wire, and 
who built your fence, and whether or not it is paid 
for?” 

For a space of seconds the man’s glance held on 
the steady grey eyes of the boy, then it wavered, 
and he smiled: “Why, no—that is, it ain’t 
exactly paid fer, yet. I bought it offen Harmon. 
You see the Round Seven had the wire on hand, 
an’ nowheres to use it, an’ I agreed to take it. 
It wasn’t no use leavin’ that money tied up in wire 
that wasn’t bein’ used. I aim to pay fer it out of 
my wool money.” 

“Who built the fence?” persisted the boy. 

“Why the Round Seven ranch hands built it. 
The fore part of the winter they didn’t have 
nothin’ to do around the ranch, so Harmon, wantin’ 
to be neighborly, loaned ’em to me.” 

“And the posts?” 

“I got them offen Harmon, too.” 

“And now about the hay,” continued the boy. 
“You’ve been feeding Round Seven hay, haven’t 
you?” 

“Yes, some. I aim to pay that out of my wool 


170 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

money, too. That is, onless we make a dicker 
fer the claims. In which case you kin take it out 
when you pay me.” 

Connie nodded: “I see. The way it stands, 
your land is fenced with Round Seven posts and 
wire, built by Round Seven labor, and you’re 
feeding Round Seven hay, and hauling it with a 
Round Seven team and wagon. Is that about 
right?” 

“Yes, I rent the team an’ wagon off Harmon.” 

The boy was silent for so long that the man 
shuffled about impatiently. At last he spoke: 
“Well, what do you say? It’s dirt cheap fer you 
at six thousan’? I kin git my sheep offen here 
any time—today, if you say so—that is if you 
come acrost with the mazuma.” 

Connie laughed: ‘ ‘ Six thousand dollars is quite 
a lot of money for a boy of my size to be carrying 
around in his pocket. And besides, I’m pretty 
green, as you said. The fact is, I’m so green at 
this business that I don’t even know whether these 
papers are correct, or not. I haven’t had much 
business experience. There were some logs once 
up in Minnesota that a man tired to beat me out of. 
And another time I paid ten cents for a sack of 




“Greenness” of Connie Morgan 171 


peanuts on a train, and I found out afterwards that 
they were only worth five cents. So I’m naturally 
cautious in dealing with strangers.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” the man hastened to 
assure, “But this here case is different. I ain’t no 
stranger. We’re neighbors, an’ if you got any 
doubts about me, ask Harmon. He’s know’d me 
fer years. He’ll tell you I’m all right.” 

“That’s the trouble,” answered the boy, a 
perplexed frown wrinkling his brow, “I can’t ask 
Harmon.” 

“Why not? It ain’t fur out to where the 
roundup’s at.” 

“No, but, you see, Harmon isn’t with the 
roundup any more.” 

“Where is he at?” the man shot a keen glance 
into the boy’s immobile face. 

“Why, he’s down at Benton, in jail.” 

“In jail!” The words leaped from the man’s 
lips. ‘ 1 What d ’you mean—in jail ? ’ ’ 

“That’s just what I mean. You see, I’m green 
at this business, and I wondered why he was 
changing Round Seven calves into Heart Bar 
calves, so I sent for the sheriff and the stock 
inspector to ask them about it, and we all went 


172 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


down the other side of the bad lands where they 
had a corral built in the sage brush, and watched 
them change some brands, and then the sheriff 
took Harmon down to Benton with him, and Kid 
Owens, and Alex McLaurie, and Milk River, and 
another man. It seems that there is something 
wrong about it, somewhere.” The man was 
staring wide-eyed, and Connie noticed that his 
face had paled perceptibly. He continued in an 
even voice: “And so you see I can’t ask Harmon 
about you, but that’ll be all right, because when I 
found out that your name is Curry, and not 
Wadell, and that you already had one claim over 
on Shonkin, I wondered if that was all right. 
I’m so green that I thought I’d just make sure, so I 
sent for the United States deputy marshall. He’ll 
be down here some time today, and then we’ll all 
three look over the papers together, and if they’re 
all right, I’ll buy the claims. You see, this being 
a Government proposition, the sheriff couldn’t 

help me out on it-” The boy’s words were 

drowned in a yell of rage, as the man sprang 
forward and struck clumsily across the table with 
his fist. The boy stepped lightly to his feet, and 
the force of the blow that did not land sent Wadell 



“Greenness” of Connie Morgan 173 


sprawling across the table top. With a roar he 
regained his feet, and froze in his tracks as he 
found himself staring into the muzzle of the boy’s 
service revolver. His fists unclenched slowly, 
and every particle of color left his face. His 
shoulders sagged perceptibly, and the flash of rage 
in his eyes faded into that peculiar hang-dog look 
that is the look of a beaten man. His lips moved, 
and he moistened them with the tip of his tongue: 
“Wha—what you mean—green?” he managed to 
stammer, ‘ ‘ Who be you ? ’ ’ 

“I’m Connie Morgan,” answered the boy, in the 
same half-diffident tone he had employed all 
through the conversation. “I’m green, but I’m 
down here trying to learn the cattle business. 
There’s more to it than I thought, but if I work 
hard, I guess I can learn it.” 

“I’ll say so,” mumbled the man. “I don’t 
git you. You set there an’ talk like a fool, an yet 
’fore yer here two months you’ve got next to about 
all the dirty work that was goin’ on. I kind of 
savvy you, at that. The fool way of talkin’ is only 
actin’. I didn’t know till I jest studied it out- 
It’s the way you draw’d yer gun. They ain’t no 
man livin’ that’s slow-headed like you let on, that 


174 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

could dodge a blow, an’ git onto his feet, an* 
cover a man with a gun all in one move. But, say, 
don’t set the Gov’ment onto me. I was tryin’ to 
cheat you, all right. But it was Harmon’s doin’s. 
He got me to come over here, an’ pertend to take 
up the claim. Them papers is forged. When he 
found out that Wilson had sold out to another 
Alasky man, he figgered on cleanin’ up big, count 
of him gittin’ away with it with Wilson. Him an’ 
I throw’d in an’ bought that band of wethers, paid 
nine thousan’ dollars fer ’em. We aimed to run 
’em on your range, an’ take the clip, an’ fat ’em on 
your hay, an’ sell ’em. We’d of made about three 
thousan’ on the deal, an’ besides we’d of gouged 
you out of the six thousan’ fer the land.” 

“You must have thought I was green,” com¬ 
mented the boy. 

“Well, Harmon he pulled it jest as raw as that 
on Wilson, an’ got away with it, so he figgered 
all Alasky men was easy. Now, I’ve give it to you 
straight, let me git away from here before that 
there marshal comes. I’ll go straight, from now 
on—honest I will. This is the first time I ever 
broke the law, an’ I’ve got a bellyfull of it. I’ve 
got me a little place over on Shonkin where I kin 


“Greenness” of Connie Morgan 175 


make a livin’, if I’m let alone. You kin keep the 
sheep. Only loan me a saddle horse to git away 
on, an’ don’t set the Gov’ment on me.” 

For a long time the boy was silent, as he watched 
a tiny gleam of hope grow in the other’s eyes. 
He thrust the revolver into its holster, and reached 
for the claim papers, which he carefully folded, 
slipped into the envelope, and thrust into his 
pocket. “I think, Curry, I’ll give you a chance,” 
he said, slowly. “I’ll just keep these papers. I 
won’t use them unless you forget to run straight. 
About the sheep, now. I’ll get Harmon’s share 
by process of law. Your own share you can keep. 
Of course you’ll have to stand your share of the 
hay expense, and your share of the labor for build¬ 
ing that fence, and for tearing it down to get it off 
the open range-” 

The flicker of a smile twisted the man’s lips. 
“If you could use the fence where it’s at, it would 
save you quite a bit,” he said. “It’s only a two- 
wire one, but a couple more wires would make it 
cattle proof.” 

“But—I’ve got no right to fence the range!’ 

“Well—this here piece ain’t exactly open range. 
It belongs to the Round Seven already. Harmon 



176 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


said you wouldn’t never know the difference. 
We wouldn’t of dasted to fence open range where 
we would of had to show them forged papers to the 
first claim inspector that come along.” 

“But, about these sheep. You’ll have to look 
after them till we can dispose of them. I don’t 
want them where they are. Can’t you trail them 
off someplace and herd them?” 

“Young man,” said the sheep man, solemnly. 
‘ ‘ I kin trail them sheep clean down into Mexico an’ 
herd ’em indeffinate, if you say so. I’ll do any¬ 
thing you say to do. I feel different in here, 
a’ready,” he placed his hand on his chest, “I 
wasn’t homed to be no crook. An’ I ain’t felt 
right good sence I got into it.” 


CHAPTER XV 


i. w. w. 

The calf round-up was over. The Heart Bar 
cattle had been rebranded with the Round Seven 
brand and turned onto their own range north 
of the Missouri River, and Tex, with a half dozen 
riders who had been retained, was out on the 
range gathering a train load of three-year-old steers 
and turning them onto the Indian Reservation 
where they would “finish off” for fall shipment to 
Chicago, to much better advantage than on the 
open range. 

Connie remained at the Round Seven home 
ranch where haying was in full swing. Each day 
found him in the hay fields where the crews under 
the direction of Tombstone and Canary were har¬ 
vesting the crop of winter feed. To the boy whose 
experience had been for the most part in the far 
north, there was a certain fascination in seeing the 

tall grass laid flat to the whine of the mowers. 

177 


178 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

There was fascination, also, in the scent of the 
sun-dried hay that was rolled into long windrows 
by the rakes, and whipped into cocks by the forks 
of the hay crew, and in watching the huge stacks 
grow, as load after load was swung aloft by the 
big boom of the stackers. 

One evening as the boy sat on the porch of the 
log ranch house with his eyes on the far horizon 
where the square head of Sugar Loaf Butte stood 
out distinctly in the afterglow, Tombstone, doleful 
of countenance, slowly chewing at the end of a 
stalk of hay that dangled from the comer of his 
mouth, ambled around the corner of the house and 
seated himself on the top step. For a full minute 
he sat there chewing his piece of hay, his eyes fixed 
sombrely upon the ground. Connie was the first 
to speak: 

* ‘ How are things coming, Tombstone ? ” he asked. 

The man shoved his Stetson toward the back of 
his head, shifted the straw to the opposite corner 
of his mouth, and spat with deliberation and 
accuracy upon a sun dried chip. “Things looks 
bad. Tol’able bad, a man could say.” He sur¬ 
veyed the result of his shot at the chip with 
approval, and relapsed into silence. 


I. w. w. 


179 


“Why, what’s the matter? Everything seemed 
to be going fine this afternoon.” 

“We got a lot of hay down. One field of blue 
j’int layin’ flat. A lot of wild hay up the west 
coulee raked, an’ that alfalfy down in the medder, 
all cocked up.” 

“What’s the matter with that?” The boy’s 
eyes swept the sky that had been cloudless for 
weeks. “You’re not looking for rain, are you?” 

Tombstone submitted the heavens to a minute 
scrutiny. “You can’t never tell,” he opined, with 
a wag of the head, “I’ve saw it rain before now, 
an’ I’ve saw it not. If it hauls off an’ rains things 
will be worst an’ worst, which they’re bad enough 
as they be.” 

“What do you mean?” 

‘‘Well, some of the hands has quit.” 

* ‘ Quit! What did they quit for ? ” 

“They want more money. They claim it’s too 
hot, an’ they won’t work for no forty dollars a 
month.” 

“Isn’t it always hot at haying time?” 

“Sure, it’s hot. It ain’t the hot. That there’s 
jist a excuse fer to have somethin’ to kick about. 
They think they’ve got you where they kin gouge 


180 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


five dollars more on the month out of you. This 
here is a heavy hay year, an’ all the outfits has 
hired all the men they is, an’ they figger you can’t 
git no more if they quit.” 

‘ ‘ Have they all quit ? ” 

“Naw. Only one gang. Them ones that’s in 
the bunk house. They’s two or three of ’em that 
claims they’re I. Ws., whatever that is, an’ they’ve 
talked around amongst the rest, an’ made speeches 
nights, ontil they’ve got the hull gang onsatisfied 
with the work an’ the wages, an’ everything else. 
Besides which they know you’re jest a young feller. 
I wisht Tex was here. Mebbe me or Canary could 
find him in a day’s ride, or so.” 

“I guess we won’t bother Tex,” Connie replied. 
“He ought to be pulling in most any time, now. 
But even if he should be out a few days longer, I 
think we can handle this gang. I ran across the 
I. W. Ws. once up in a log camp in Minnesota, and 
I know something of their tricks. You stay here 
and I’ll go down to the bunk house and have a talk 
with ’em. I was looking for Tex and the boys in 
this evening. If they come before I get back, tell 
them not to show up around the bunk house. 
Wherever there are I. W. Ws, there’s apt to be 


I. w. w. 


181 


trouble, and if they want to start anything, it’s 
just as well not to let them know how strong we 
are.” 

“I do’no,” said Tombstone, doubtfully, “I 
don’t b’lieve talkin’ will do no good. An’ if you 
agree to give ’em a five dollar raise, the other 
gang’ll want it, too. An’ if you don’t, the heft of 
’em’ll quit, an’ we’ll be short handed an’ lose a lot 
of hay, or if they don’t quit they’ll be wantin’ 
another five dollar raise in a week’s time. Things 
looks bad, boss, I’m a-tellin’—mighty bad.” 

Connie laughed: “ Cheer up, Tombstone! 
Things generally work out all right. What we’ve 
got to do is use our heads. I’ll know more about 
it when I come back.” 

“They’s a lot of times things don’t work out,” 
forboded Tombstone, lugubriously: “Lots of 
hay has be’n lost ’cause outfits was short-handed. 
Outfits has busted, an’ men has died before now, 
because things didn’t work out right. If yer 
luck’s runnin’ porely, it ain’t no use to try to buck 
it. Even if only half them fellers quits, we’re 
crippled so we lose a lot of hay.” 

On the way to the bunk house Connie grinned to 
himself: “Poor Tombstone,” he muttered, “It 


182 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

must be awful to always look on the dark side of 
things. The trouble is with him, he’s never 
learned to live.” 

Twilight was deepening, and as the boy ap¬ 
proached the bunk house he could see by the yellow 
glow of the bracket lamps that the men had sought 
shelter from the mosquitoes behind the closed 
screens. The sound of a voice reached his ears. 
Evidently one of their number was haranguing 
them in a sort of set speech. Fragments of the 
man’s remarks reached his ears as he drew near 
the door: ‘ ‘ Capital grinds labor in under its heel. 

Bosses an’ slaves—that’s what this country’s made 
up of. Us pore fellers toilin’ an’ sweatin’ out there 
in the sun all day is the slaves, an’ the ranch own¬ 
ers is the bosses. An’ what do we git out of it? 
Forty stinkin’ dollars a month! The price of one 
steer! Or two ton of hay! An’how many steers 
has this outfit got? An’ how many ton of hay? 
Thousands of ’em! But, the time’s cornin’ when 
things will be changed. Labor’s got to organize. 
Capital can’t exist without us. We’ve got the 
bosses by the throat, an’ we don’t know enough to 
squeeze down an’ choke ’em. Right now, we’ve 
got the chanct to squeeze down an’ git a little of 


I. w. w. 


183 

what’s cornin’ to us—” Connie opened the door 
and entered the bunk house. A sharp featured 
man, with narrow shoulders, and a blue cotton 
shirt open at the throat, stood at one end of the 
room. Two others were seated beside him, and 
the rest of the men lounged on chairs and bunks. 
Connie seated himself in a chair and deliberately 
tilted its back against the wall. The narrow 
shouldered man stared at him for a moment, 
shuffled uneasily upon his feet, glanced over the 
faces of the others, and sat down abruptly between 
his two companions, where he mopped his sweat- 
beaded forehead with the sleeve of his blue cotton 
shirt. 

“Go on,” urged Connie, smiling toward the man. 
“Don’t mind me. Go on with your speech. I’d 
like to hear it.” 

The man scowled, wriggled, and shot an appeal¬ 
ing look toward the man on his left, a large, low¬ 
browed man with a month’s growth of beard. 
The big man answered the boy’s invitation with¬ 
out rising from his chair: “What we got to say, 
ain’t fer you to listen to. All you’ve got to know 
is that you’ve got to pay us five dollars more on 
the month, or we’ll quit.” 


184 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


“Why should I pay five dollars more a month? 
You agreed to work for forty dollars, didn’t you? 
None of the other outfits are paying more than 
forty.” 

“That don’t make no difference one way or 
another. The p’int is, we’ve got you where you’ll 
pay the five, or you’ll lose more hay than what the 
raise would come to. We use our head, we do. 
You’re up agin organization, young feller, an’ 
organized labor is goin’ to show the bosses where 
to head in at. Time ain’t so fur off when the 
I. W. W.’ll make the prices, an’ you bosses’ll pay 
’em, same as you’re goin’ to come acrost, now.” 

“Are you all I. W. Ws?” asked the boy glancing 
about the room. He noted that the eyes of most 
of the men lowered before his glance, and the man 
with the stubby beard answered. “No—only us 
three here is I. W. Ws., now—but the rest of ’em 
will be when they see how easy it is to git their 
rights.” 

“There are a few points I’d like to talk over,” 
replied the boy. “You say that the fact that you 
agreed to work for forty dollars don’t make any 
difference. You expect these men to join your 
organization, and the first thing you show them 



I. w. w. 


185 

is that the organization welches on a bargain.** 
The boy turned to the others who had remained 
silent listeners: “How do you boys feel about 
it?” he asked, abruptly. “You’ve all worked in 
the hay fields before. What’s the trouble?” he 
paused for a moment, but no one answered, and he 
continued: “Don’t your sleeping quarters suit 
you ? Or, is it the grub ? Or the hours ? I want 
to find out where the trouble is. Tombstone told 
me someone said it was the hot weather. But, if 
you did quit, it would be just as hot the next place 
you worked, and the wages would be the same.” 
Once more the boy paused and ignoring the three 
I. W. Ws., allowed his glance to travel over the 
faces of the others. No one volunteered an 
answer and he pointed his finger at a large, roll¬ 
sleeved man whose arms were tanned to the color 
of old leather. “You, there—with the pipe—you 
tell me what the trouble is, and we’ll talk it over.” 

The eyes of all centered upon the man, who 
finding himself singled out, hunched forward in his 
chair and removed the pipe from his mouth: 
“Talkin’ about me, personal, they ain’t no trouble. 
I’ve be’n hayin’ fer fifteen year, not only around 
here, but in other places, an’ other states, an’ they 




186 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


ain’t be’n a onct that I was better set than what I 
be right here. The bunk house is better’n most 
places they sleep you, an’ the grub’s jest as good as 
any I ever et, an’ a heap better’n the general run, 
an’ the hours is the shortest I ever seen called a 
day in hayin’ time. I’ve worked fer outfits that 
figgered a day started in the grey of the mornin’ an’ 
quit when it was too dark to see, an’ most outfits 
call a day from sunrise till sundown, which this 
time of year is plenty long, but with this here outfit 
the sun’s shinin’ when we go to the fields, an’ it’s 
still shinin’ when we come out of ’em. When a 
boss or a coffee-cooler comes out like a man an’ 
wants to know where the trouble is, the way I 
figger it, he’s got a right to be told. The trouble 
with this here gang is settin’ right over there in 
them three chairs.” He indicated with his pipe 
stem the three I. W. Ws., and settling back in his 
chair, replaced the pipe in his mouth and spoke 
slowly between puffs. “Talkin’ about me, I’m 
goin’ to stay where I’m at. Personal, I’m an 
American, an’ I don’t need no Roosian Kike, er 
Dago, er whatever them birds is, to tell me when 
I’m settin’ purty. I’ve set an’ listened to their 
bluffin’ , an’ their talk about their lodge er whatever 


I. w. w. 


187 


it is, till it looks to me like if Congress would go to 
work an’ turn everyone loose that’s locked up in 
every jail an’ pen in America, an’ fill up the jails 
an’ the pens with these here I. W. Ws., the general 
average of folks runnin’ loose would be consid’able 
better’n what it is now.” 

Hardly were the words out of the man’s mouth 
than, with a snarl of hate, the big, low browed man 
who had acted as spokesman for the I. W. Ws., 
leaped to his feet, and with chair swung aloft 
rushed at the man with the pipe, who had no time 
to defend himself, or even to rise from his chair. 
Quick as a flash, Connie, who was seated between 
the two, and a little to one side, thrust out his foot, 
and the next instant both he and the big ruffian 
crashed to the floor. Pandemonium broke loose 
in the bunk house. Before the big I. W. W. could 
regain his feet, the man with the pipe was upon him. 
Connie scrambled to his hands and knees only to 
be knocked flat the next moment by a chair 
wielded by the narrow shouldered I. W. W. The 
rungs of the chair struck the boy fairly upon the 
back of the head, and for a moment the room 
turned black. Sounds were all about him; the 
quick breathing of men, the thud of blows, and 


1 88 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

the hoarse grunts that followed the thuds. Again 
he scrambled to his hands and knees. The floor 
seemed to be swaying and rocking beneath him, 
and a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him. 
Two men, grip-locked in each other’s arms tripped 
over him, and as Connie squirmed and wriggled 
from beneath them he saw the narrow shouldered 
man snatch up the leg of a broken chair and sneak 
forward, his eyes fixed upon the head of the man 
with the pipe whose back was toward him, and who 
was exchanging blow for blow with the big man 
who had started the row. 

Unarmed as he was, Connie did not hesitate a 
second. His brain cleared, and struggling to his 
feet he launched himself upon the back of the 
narrow shouldered man just as he raised his club 
to strike. Connie’s right arm shot over the man’s 
right shoulder, and instantly his fore-arm tightened 
with a vise-like grip under the man’s chin, at the 
same moment his right knee bored into the small of 
the man’s back. With a startled gurgle the man 
gave backward, the chair-leg flew out of his hand 
and knocked the chimney from one of the bracket 
lamps causing it to flare smokily. The two 
crashed to the floor with Connie on top. A mighty 


surge of rage seized the boy as he realized that 
beneath him lay the man who had dealt him the 
cowardly blow from behind, and who was stopped 
in the act of dealing another cowardly blow from 
behind. The man’s hand closed on another chair 
leg as Connie’s fingers gripped his throat, and he 
flattened himself against the man’s body as the 
weapon swept harmlessly above him. Putting 
every ounce of strength into his grip, the boy 
squeezed the man’s wind pipe, and a wild sense of 
elation swept over him as he felt the yielding flesh 
give beneath his fingers. The man struggled 
furiously, and doggedly Connie maintained his 
grip, pumping up and down with all his strength, 
so that the back of the man’s head audibly battered 
the floor. The man’s legs and arms thrashed and 
writhed as he vainly sought to break the vice-like 
grip at his throat. Finally his struggles grew 
weaker, and suddenly ceased, as did the gurgling 
sounds that had been forced from between his lips. 
The boy relaxed his grip as he glanced into the face 
of the man whose mouth had sagged open, and 
whose eyes had rolled back until only the whites 
were visible, showing in startling contrast to the 
fast purpling skin of his cheeks and forehead. 


190 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


The sounds of struggle dwindled and ceased. 
Connie regained his feet with the aid of the over¬ 
turned table, and glanced about him. Three men 
sat astride of three others upon the floor. The 
big ruffian who had started the fight cowered upon 
his knees, with his face buried in the blankets of a 
bunk, and his arms protecting his head, while the 
man with the pipe stood over him with doubled 
fists. The narrow-shouldered man’s chest began 
to heave, and his lips writhed, as his breathing 
apparatus began to function once more. The 
third I. W. W. lay peacefully slumbering a few 
feet distant, with a big blue lump on his forehead 
where a chair leg had met him head-on. 

The man with the pipe turned his gaze on the 
boy. One deeply purpled eye had swelled shut, 
but the man’s swollen lips grinned, and his good 
eye winked as he indicated the three men who were 
held to the floor: “Say, boss, looks like this 
here lodge had nishiated three new members, 
but they’s six of us that they didn’t nishiate—not 
what you’d notice. Which it means that when it 
come to a show-down Ameriky’s still on top.” 

Connie laughed: “You bet she’s still on top!” 
he agreed. “And now, if you boys will stay here 



I. w. w. 


191 

and keep an eye on these fellows till I come back 
we’ll give ’em their time and get them off the 
ranch.” 

“Leave ’em to us, boss,” replied the man, 
searching about the floor for his pipe. “They 
won’t start nothin’ we can’t stop.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


FIRE 

Tombstone was waiting on the steps of the 
porch. ‘ ‘ D’you have any luck ? ’ ’ he asked. 

“Pretty good luck,” grinned the boy. “We 
argued the thing out, and only half of ’em decided 
to quit, the three I. W. Ws., and three more. The 
other six will stay.” 

“Even if half of ’em quits, we’ll be short-handed 
an’ prob’ly lose a lot of hay,” Tombstone glanced 
into the boy’s face, and his brow puckered. ‘‘Say, 
boss, what’s the matter? Yer shirt’s all tore. 
You look like you be’n in a fight.” 

“Things did get a little lively down there for a 
few minutes, but they’re quiet, now.” 

Tombstone’s reply was interrupted by the sound 
of hoofs, and the next moment Tex and his six 
cowboys swept down the creek and drew up 
sharply in the open space before the house. 

“Hello, boss,” called the new foreman, as he 

192 


Fire 


193 


slipped to the ground. “Well, we finished up the 
job. Shoved five hundred head of steers onto the 
reservation, an’ picked up four head of missin’ 
saddle horses.’’ His glance rested for a moment 
upon the face of Tombstone, and he grinned: 
“What’s eat in’ you? You’re plumb doleful 
lookin’. Got a burr in under yer suspenders?” 

“Huh, they’s plenty trouble ’round here. Part 
of the hay crew’s quit, an’ the boss had a fight 
down to the bunk house, an’ things looks mighty 
bad.” 

“A fight, did you say?” Tex stepped closer to 
Connie. “How about it, boss? It ain’t over, is 
it?” 

The boy laughed, “Yes, it’s all over. You’re 
just a few minutes too late to get in on it. ’ ’ Connie 
spent the next ten minutes in explaining the 
situation, concluding with the information that he 
was going to pay off the insurgents and get them 
off the ranch. 

Tex looked grave. “I. W. Ws., eh?” 

Connie nodded: “Yes. Know anything about 
’em?” 

“I know enough to know that when they can’t 
get holt of dynamite they use fire. There must be 


194 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

a lot of haystacks in the fields by now. They 
belong where Harmon an’ his gang is. Ain’t they 
done enough so we can haul ’em to town an’ turn 
em over to the sheriff ? ’ ’ 

The boy shook his head: “No—but—” his 
voice trailed into silence, and for some moments 
he stood apparently lost in thought: 

“We started a setting just inside the fence up 
where our road joins the main trail. We must 
have half a stack there already.” 

“I wasn’t thinkin’ about no half a stack,” 
replied Tex. “How about the settin’s that’s 
already finished—the ones that’s got anywheres 
from a hundred to four hundred ton apiece in 
’em?” 

“And I was thinking of that half a stack,” 
replied the boy gravely. “These I. W. Ws. are 
pilgrims. They wouldn’t go far off the main trail 
in the dark.” 

Followed, then, a colloquy, at the end of which 
Tex and his riders turned and rode away into the 
night, and Connie and Tombstone proceeded to 
the bunk house. 

“Holy Smoke!” exclaimed Tombstone, as he 
stepped into the interior. “They ain’t a hull 



Fire 


195 


chair left! I’ll say things was lively! Charge 
’em up with the chairs, boss. It’s their fault they 
was broke.” 

Connie laughed: “I’ll contribute the chairs to 
the good of the cause.” He surveyed the six 
battered individuals who had been herded into one 
end of the bunk house. “Step over here, one at a 
time and get your money. You’ve worked a half a 
month.” One by one the three I. W. Ws. slouched 
forward and accepted his wages' while the six loyal 
hands stood guard, each with the leg of a broken 
chair held conspicuously in his hand. The three 
others who had thrown in with them followed, 
only the last man making any comment. “I 
don’t want to quit,” he whined. “I’m satisfied to 
keep on workin’. I’m like him,” he indicated the 
big man with the pipe. “This job suits me, an’ I 
want to stay. These here fellers talked me into 
strikin’ fer more wages, but I’m gittin’ enough the 
way it is.” 

“You’re a little too late deciding,” answered 
Connie, coldly. “You should have made up your 
mind when the fight started, like these other men 
did. Here’s your money.” The boy handed the 
man his wages and turned to the others. “You 


196 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

fellows are going to pull out of here in about ten 
minutes,” he ordered. “ Tombstone will hitch a 
team to the wagon and haul you out to the trail.” 

‘‘The trail!” roared the big I. W. W. “You 
hauled us out from town an’ you’ll haul us back 
where you got us! We know our rights. You’ll 
haul us clean to town, or we’ll have the law on 
you!” 

“You’re a fine bunch to appeal to the law,” 
sneered the boy. “But go ahead. Your bluff is 
called, because once outside my gate you’re going 
to be afoot. We’re short handed here because 
you’ve made us short handed, and I haven’t got a 
man, nor a team to spare for a trip to town. It’s 
only sixty or seventy miles, and the walk will do 
you good. If you get tired just camp along the 
road and wait for the stage. It will be along some¬ 
time to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“If you don’t haul us, you’ve got to sleep us, an 
feed us till the stage comes, an’ then pay our fare 
in!” 

“Oh, do I?” Connie smiled, “Well, just add 
that to your claim for damages when you bring 
that law suit.” 

A few minutes later Tombstone pulled up at the 


Fire 


197 


door with a loud “Whoa!” and Connie turned to 
the big man with the pipe. “Load ’em into the 
wagon,” he ordered. “And you boys better go 
along to see that they don’t start anything. 
Dump ’em off at the gate and hustle back. We’ve 
done a pretty good evening’s work since supper, 
and I’ll have the cook rustle an extra lunch.” 

Except for the little light of the stars, the night 
was dark, and very still. Beside the trail, just 
outside the gate of the Round Seven ranch, six 
disconsolate figures stood glowering into the 
night. During the ride to the gate no one had 
spoken. In the mind of each had risen a wild 
thought of seizing the team and wagon and 
driving it on to town, but one glance into the faces 
of the guards showed their evident willingness to 
use the chair legs they still held in their hands, 
and the thought died a-borning. 

To the northward, the black mass of the Bear 
Paws cut a jagged line across the star-studded 
sky. A light puff of air from the south rustled 
the leaves of the cottonwoods and fanned the 
faces of the men, and to their ears was borne the 
muffled creak and rattle of the wagon returning 


198 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


slowly down the creek to the ranch. The big 
leader of the I. W. Ws. scowled as his eyes sought 
the trail that vanished into the endless dark. 
Then, suddenly they fixed upon a rounded black 
shape that reared high close beside the trail. It 
was an unfinished stack of hay, the one they had 
been working on that day. 

With a venomous imprecation the man pointed 
to the hay stack: “We’ll make him wisht he’d of 
hauled us to town!’’ he growled. “They’s forty 
ton of hay in that stack if they’s a pound. We’ll 
learn the young pup to set men afoot sixty mile 
from nowheres!” 

The others divined his intention. The narrow¬ 
shouldered man whom Connie had choked into 
submission offered a protest: “What’s forty ton 
of hay?” he sneered. “Why not make a job of it 
while we’re about it? Might’s well git hung fer a 
sheep as a lamb, as the sayin’ goes. What’s the 
matter with slippin’ around to them south fields 
where the hayin’s all finished? They’s settin’s 
of hay down there, four stacks to the settin’, an’ a 
hundred ton to the stack. We kin pair off, two an’ 
two, an’ burn three of them settin’s to onct— 
that’ll be twelve hundred ton gone fluie!” 


Fire 


199 


“That’s the idee!” seconded the third I. W. W. 
“Might’s well do a good job while we’re about 
it.” 

“Yes,” sneered the big man, “An’ where’d you 
go when you done it? They ain’t none of us 
knows the country well enough to ever git out of 
them fences in the dark.” 

“The bad lands is south an’ east,” countered the 
narrow-shouldered man. “We could hit fer the 
bad lands.” 

“Yes, an’ then what?” taunted the big man. 
“A-foot in the bad lands with nothin’ to eat, an’ 
nothin’ to drink! If we didn’t curl up an’ die in 
two days’ time, we’d be crawlin’ out of there on our 
bellies a-beggin’ ’em to come an’ hang us to put us 
out of our misery. An’ believe me, if we git caught 
it’s a tight necktie an’ a cottonwood limb fer us! 
No sir! I ain’t agoin’ to git fer off this trail! 
They can’t see this here stack from the ranch, 
nohow, an’ we’ll have all night to git away in. 
They won’t know it’s burnt till mornin’, an’ by 
that time we’ll be a long ways off. It ain’t like as 
if the cowboys was home. They can’t foller us, 
cause they ain’t none of them hay hands kin ride 
a horse no more’n what we kin. An’ besides they 


200 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

got so much hay down that they can’t afford to 
stop hayin’ to chase us. Even if they did, we 
could see ’em fore they seen us, an’ hide till they 
got past. ’Course, I wisht this here was a big 
settin’, like them below, but losin’ forty ton, with 
hay figgered around twenty dollars a ton will make 
it cost him dear fer not haulin’ us to town. Come 
on!” 

The big man started for the fence, the two 
I. W. Ws. followed at his heels, but the other 
three men held back. With a hand on the barbed 
wire, the big man glanced over his shoulder, then 
he turned and strode wrathfully back to the trail: 
“What’s ailin’ youse?” he asked, truculently, 
“Youse is in on this here party, same as us! 
Come on. We’re all in the same boat.” 

“We don’t aim to burn no hay,” replied one of 
the men, looking the leader squarely in the eye. 

“Oh, you don’t, eh?” sneered the big man. 
“An’ what do you aim to do ? Didn’t you say you 
was goin’ to join up with the I. W. Ws. the first 
chanct you got? What do you expect to do—lay 
around an’ let someone else do the work, an’ you 
git the benefits of it? That don’t go with us.” 

“An’ burnin’ up a man’s property don’t go with 


Fire 201 

us, neither,” retorted the man, “I ain’t no 
criminal.” 

“Oh, you ain’t no criminal!” sneered the other, 
“An’ yet you want to belong to the I. W. W.! 
Well, we ain’t got no Sunday School section in the 
organization. We go after a thing to git it. If we 
can’t git it one way, we git it another. An’ we 
don’t care how we do it. The only way fer labor to 
force its demands on capital is to terrorize capital 
into grantin’ the demands.” The man rattled the 
sentence off glibly, as a school boy speaks his 
“piece.” It was a sentence he had memorized. 
“An’ the way to terrorize capital is to destroy 
property,” he continued, “An’ that’s what the 
I. W. W. is for.” 

“I’m glad I found out before I joined up,” 
replied the other, ‘ ‘ I thought it was just a—a sort 
of union that took in unskilled labor. 

“That’s jest exactly what we be! A union— 
only instead of foolin’ around arbitratin’ we 
believe in usin’ force. Strike at capital’s dollars 
an’ you bring it wallerin’ to its knees. We’re a 
union, all right—but our idees is more radical than 
other unions.” 

“An’ a blame sight too radical fer me!” ex- 


202 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

claimed the man, “You go your way, an’ we’ll go 
ourn.” 

“But, youse already throw’d in with us! 
Didn’t you fight on our side in the bunk house?” 

“Fair fightin’, with the odds about even’s one 
thing, an’ hay-burnin’ in the night is somethin’ 
else. An’ besides, I didn’t know what kind of an 
outfit you was. You got us kicked out of a good 
job with your talkin’, but you can’t talk us into 
burnin’ no haystack!” 

The big I. W. W. turned to the two, who stood 
at the man’s side. ‘ ‘ How about youse ? ” he asked, 
glaring into their faces. 

“I think the same as him,” answered one. 

“I’m skeert,” added the man who had told 
Connie he didn’t want to quit. “I’m skeert to 
help burn the hay, an’ I’m skeert not to.” 

The big man laughed, nastily: “You better be 
more skeert not to,” he said, “We’ll all git the 
blame of it, anyhow. But, if you throw in with us, 
they’ll be four agin two, an’ if we git caught we kin 
lay it on them two pardners of yourn. If we 
split three an’ three, we all git it.” 

“I don’t want to burn no hay,” whimpered the 
man, “But, I’m skeert.” 


Fire 


203 


“Suit yerself,” replied the big man, indifferently, 
and turned to join his two companions who waited 
beside the fence. 

“I’ll go! Wait! I’ll go ’long! If us four all 
sticks together, we kin lay it on them two.” He 
joined the three who were already crawling 
through the wire fence. 

“Light her at both ends, an’ in the middle,” 
ordered the big man, as he made for the farther 
end of the stack. The two men in the road 
waited, undecided which way to turn. “What’ll 
we do?” asked one. 

“I ain’t agoin’ to run,” said the other, “I ain’t 
got nothin’ to run fer. Let them that does the 
burnin’ do the runnin’.” 

“But, s’pose they see the fire, an’ come up an’ 
ketch us?” 

“It won’t look so bad if we don’t run, as if we 
do—” a bright tongue of flame shot upwards at a 
corner of the stack, and another from an opposite 
corner. By the light of the flames the two men 
saw two of the I. W. Ws. straighten up, and step 
back from the fire. The next instant at the outer 
rim of the fire light, they caught a blur of swiftly 
moving forms. A cry of terror reached their ears. 



204 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

The flames were bright now, and by their light, 
they saw a rope shoot out, and one of the I. W. Ws. 
was jerked clear off his feet, and fell violently to the 
ground. A form ran toward them shrieking in 
fright and they recognized the “skeert” man. 
He, too, was jerked to the ground before he had 
run twenty feet. A shower of sparks shot up¬ 
ward, as one of the flame spots dimmed. A form 
rushed toward them stopping at the fence. ‘ ‘ Come 
on, boys! Help fight fire!” The speaker was 
Connie Morgan and instantly the two men were at 
his side. It was but the work of a moment to 
crawl through the fence. As they ran toward the 
stack they pulled off their coats, and a moment 
later were working furiously beside men in high- 
heeled boots and chaps, beating down the flames 
with their coats while others tore at the stacks with 
pitch forks. In a few moments the fire was sub¬ 
dued, and the last spark beaten out. Two 
lanterns were lighted, and by their light, the men 
grouped themselves about the four forms that lay 
on the ground tightly bound with lariet ropes. 

“Come on,” said one of the two men who had 
refused to help fire the stack. “There ain’t 
nothin’ more fer us to do here. We’ll be goin’. 


Fire 


205 


“Don’t let them two git away!’ roared the big 
I. W. W. “They was into it, same as us. They 
was the lookouts! ’ ’ 

Connie Morgan laughed: “Hold on, boys!” 
he called, “How about going back on the job?” 

The men turned and faced him. “We was in 
the fight in the bunk house, all right,” answered 
the one. “An’ you told him,” he indicated the 
“skeert” man, who was whimpering and moaning 
upon the ground, “that it was too late to go back 
to work. That he’d ort to made up his mind 
before the fight.” 

“Well,” answered Connie, “I’ve had time to 
change my mind since. You see, we figured about 
what would happen up here when we turned these 
I. W. Ws. loose, and we sort of got ready for it. 
The boys got in off the range tonight, and they 
rode out here and surrounded the stack while I was 
paying you off. Then I followed along behind the 
wagon to see the fun, and instead of going back 
with the wagon, I slipped in behind that hay cock 
over there, and so I couldn’t help hearing what 
you fellows were talking about. I guess you know 
the I. W. Ws. now as well as I do. Back there in 
the bunk house you thought they were right. I 


206 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

like to see a man willing to fight for what he really 
believes to be right. I need men like that. As 
long as I’m running the Round Seven, you two 
have got a job—that is if you want to come 
back.” 

“I’ll say I do!” exclaimed the man, quickly. 
“It’s the best blamed outfit I ever worked fer— 
an’ as fer as wages goes, you kin pay me whatever 
you want.” 

‘ ‘ How about you ? ’ ’ asked Connie, turning to the 
other. 

“I think the same as him,” answered the man. 

Connie gave a loud whistle, and presently the 
sound of creaking and the rattle of wheels an¬ 
nounced the approach of the wagon. Tightly 
bound, the three I. W. Ws. were loaded in, and as 
the boys were about to load the man who had 
joined them at the last moment, Connie stepped 
forward and threw the rope off him. The man 
rose trembling to his feet and stood looking fear¬ 
fully from one to another. No one paid him the 
slightest attention, and the boy turned to the 
others: “Come on, boys! Let’s be getting back. 
I expect the cook has got that grub ready by this 
time.” 


Fire 


207 


The cowboys mounted their horses, and the 
others climbed into the wagon. 

How about me ? ’ ’ piped the man who had been 
released from his bonds. “Ain’t you goin’ to 
take me along?” 

“Not you,” answered the boy, “I ve got no use 
for your kind, whatever. Why, you’re not even 
worth arresting! ’ ’ 

The cowboys started their horses, and the wagon 
followed the cowboys, and as it threaded its way 
through the cottonwoods that bordered the trail 
down the creek, a wailing cry was born to the ears 
of the riders: “I’m skeert all alone in the dark! 
I’m skeert!” and then the sound was drowned in 
the rush of water about the wheels as the wagon 
crossed at the ford. And as they emerged on the 
other side another sound was borne to their ears. 
It was the long cry of the cook: “Come on an’ 
eat it or I’ll throw it a-w-a-y!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


IN THE BAD LANDS 

“What’s the next thing on the program?” 
asked Connie Morgan, as he seated himself on the 
top rail of the horse corral beside Tex, the day 
after the fight in the bunk house. In the corral 
three cowboys were trying to saddle a three-year- 
old that had been retained with half dozen others 
out of a bunch of twenty odd head of horses that 
had been picked up off the range. 

“Well,” answered the foreman of the Round 

Seven, “There’s quite a heft of chores that’s got to 

be ’tended to. I want to start the beef round-up 

week after next, an’ in the meantime there’s a little 

overhaulin’ to be done on the outfit. The front 

ax on the grub wagon’s sprung, an’ that cay use we 

had to break in on the bed wagon jest naturally 

busted every strap on his harness except the collar 

an’ tugs. He won’t never make no harness horse 

no how an’ he ain’t big enough if he would, so we 

208 


In the Bad Lands 


209 


got to break in a colt, or else take a work team off’n 
the ranch fer bed-wagon leaders.” 

Tombstone paused abruptly in the act of bolting 
extra clamps onto a hay-rack, and regarded the 
speaker with jaundiced eye. “Oh, sure, take a 
team off’n the ranch. We ain’t only got five, six 
hundred ton of hay to put up yet, an’ we kin haul 
that on a wheel-borrow. We ain’t got nary team 
too many the way it is, an’ here you go, takin’ one 
of ’em to do a job which they’s any jack-rabbit you 
ketch up off’n the range could do it.” 

Tex laughed: “You’re plumb doleful-minded 
ain’t you, Tombstone? If the world didn’t look 
no better to me than what it looks to you, I’d 
of jumped in the river ’fore I’d got my 
growth.” 

“An’ if you had, we’d of, mebbe, had a range 
foreman that didn’t want to skin all the horses 
off’n the ranch right in the middle of hayin’. 
That’s the trouble with you wagon-bosses. I 
never seen one yet that ever give a doggone how 
the ranch got along. They can’t see nothin’ but 
the cattle end of it—an’ they won’t never will, 
neither.” 

“Where does the money come from, if it ain’t 


210 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


from the cattle,” grinned Tex. “This here ain’t 
no hay ranch, it’s a cow-outfit.” 

“Yes, an’ if us ranch hands didn’t git up enough 
hay, how’d yer weak stuff winter through? Here’s 
the whole outfit goin’ plumb straight to the 
dickens, an’ no one worry in’ none about it but 
me.” 

“Oh, I guess things ain’t so bad as all that,” 
smiled Connie. “Why it seems to me things are 
coming along fine. Here we’ve got rid of Harmon, 
an’ his gang of rustlers. An’ got rid of Wadell, or 
Curry, or whatever his name is, that’ll give us one 
more team—an’ we straightened out the trouble 
with the hay crew. Why, I think things are look¬ 
ing fine.” 

Tombstone spat precisely and accurately upon 
the head of the king bolt, and lugubriously shook 
his head: “That’s jest the trouble,” he fore¬ 
boded, “Things is lookin’ good. An’ when things 
is lookin’ good, that-a-way, then somethin’ alius 
happens. As long as things is jest as bad as they 
kin git, they can’t git no worser. But when they 
look good, then you got to look out. Where’d we 
be at right now if the eppyzootic hit the horses? 
Tell me that?” 


In the Bad Lands 


211 


Tex laughed outright: “Good gosh! Tomb¬ 
stone, they ain’t never be’n no eppyzootic in this 
country that I ever heard tell of.” 

“That don’t make no difference. They has in 
other countries. An’ next time it’ll prob’ly be 
here. An’ besides that, s’pose they come on a wet 
spell. Where’d the rest of the hay be? Next 
winter’ll prob’ly be a awful hard one.” 

“I never seen a wet spell in hayin’ time yet, that 
was more’n jest a shower an’ didn’t hurt no hay. 
What makes you think next winter’s goin’ to be a 
bad one?” 

‘ ‘ I know it is. Didn’t I kick out a mice’s nest in 
under the aidge of the old haystack? An’ it was 
thicker than what the general run of ’em is. You 
can’t fool me. Mouses knows. An’ besides, I’ve 
saw a wet spell in hayin’, if you ain’t. It was in the 
summer of nineteen an’ seven, an’ I was workin’ fer 
the Two-Bar.” 

“How much hay did they lose?” 

“They didn’t lose none, but they was lucky. If 
the wet spell had lasted longer, an’ they hadn’t 
be’n so fer along with the hayin’, they might of 
lost a thousan’ ton. An’ then where’d they 
be’n?” 


2i2 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


“Say, Tombstone,” said Tex, soberly. “They’s 
one worry you overlooked. See them mountains? 
Well, back a couple thousan’ years or so ago, a 
mountain blow’d up an’ buried a whole town—two 
of ’em—folks an’ all. Now, where’d we be if one 
of them Bear Paws would take a notion to let go ? ” 

“That’s jest it,” agreed Tombstone, “Where 
would we be? If this here other mountain blow’d 
up it ain’t no cinch these here ones won’t. If them 
folks would of thought the mountain was agoin’ 
to blow up they wouldn’t of built the town there. 
That’s jest what I be’n tellin’ you. I don’t s’pose 
none of them folks had the sense to be worryin’ 
about it. Or if they did, the rest of ’em prob’ly 
laughed at ’em.” 

“Worryin’ about it wouldn’t of done no good,” 
grinned Tex. “They’d of got buried up jest the 
same.” 

“No, they wouldn t. If enough of ’em had of 
worried about it, they’d of moved their towns 
somewheres else, wouldn’t they?”’ 

Tex winked at Connie, and pulled a long face: 
“They might of, but the chances is they’d of 
located ’em along side of some river that would 
of rose sudden, an’ drounded ’em all.” 


In the Bad Lands 


213 


Tombstone nodded: “Yeh, prob’ly would,” he 
agreed, “That’s jest what I be’n sayin’—when 
things looks good, that’s the time somethin’ most 
genelly alius happens.” 

Tombstone went off to the shop for more bolts, 
and Tex grinned; “Reckon we better break in a 
colt, an’ save the whole outfit from goin’ under. 
We got to run in some more wild horses anyway. 
I want the boys to break about a dozen saddle 
horses before the beef round-up. I only held over 
six hands from the calf round-up, so I’ll put two of 
them breakin’ horses, an’ one to work on the 
wagon an’ harness, an’ let Tombstone have the 
rest to help with the hay. Me an’ you will ride 
after the horses an’ run ’em in.” 

Before Connie could reply things were happen¬ 
ing in the corral. A cowboy had swung into the 
saddle, the two others cast loose the snubbing rope, 
and clambered up the pole fence as the broncho 
sunk his head. 

‘ ‘ Stay with him! ’ ’ 

“Ride him, cowboy!” 

“Fan him!” 

‘ ‘ Stay a long time! ’ ’ 

Such were the words of advice and encourage- 


214 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

ment that sounded above the thud of hoofs and 
the labored grunts of the horse as he leaped again 
and again into the air to hit the ground stiff-legged, 
with his back humped like the back of an angry 
cat. In the saddle the rider yelled shrill yells and 
plied his quirt. Round and round the small 
enclosure went the horse, bucking, sun-fishing, 
swapping ends without once loosening the seat of 
the rider who leaned far back against the cantle, 
left arm extended to the limit with the pull of the 
taut reins, right arm rising and falling, as with 
quirt and spurs he stung the frantic animal to bring 
out the worst that was in him and so conquer him 
in one ride. For full five minutes, with lathered 
flanks, the broncho fought to unseat the cowboy, 
but it was no use, and giving up, the horse sulked, 
and for another five minutes no amount of punish¬ 
ment with quirt or spur could get so much as a 
move out of him. With head drawn half way 
around, he stood the picture of sullen stubbornness. 

Open the gate! ’ ’ cried the rider, and instantly 
the two cowboys who had sought refuge on the 
fence slid to the ground on the outside and mount¬ 
ing their horses held themselves in readiness to 
“haze” the broncho from plunging into obstruc- 


In the Bad Lands 


215 


tions that might injure both himself and his rider. 
For your unbroken horse cares nothing for the bit. 
Blinded by fear and rage he seeks only to rid him¬ 
self of the thing that clings to his back, and 
pitching and bucking in his blind fury will crash 
into wagons, machinery, fences, buildings, any¬ 
thing in fact that happens to lie in his path unless 
there are horsemen at hand to crowd in and force 
him to hold to the open. Tex leaped to the 
ground and threw the pole gate wide. The rider 
slackened his reins for a moment, and seeing the 
opening, the broncho made a wild dash for liberty, 
his first rush taking him in a series of leaps and 
bucks, and clumsy lunges straight through the 
creek bed and out into a wide hay meadow upon 
the other side, the two hazers keeping pace to 
prevent the crazed animal from plunging into the 
barbed wire fences. 

“Guess we might’s well throw the shells on our 
own cayuses an’ make a little ride today, boss. 
There’s a bunch of horses runs between the lower 
end of Saw Tooth Butte an’ the bad lands that we 
might run in. Last time I seen ’em there was 
four or five likely lookin’ three-year-olds runnin’ 
with ’em.” 


216 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


“Fine,” answered Connie, “Let’s go!” and led 
the way to the stable from which they emerged a 
few minutes later with their horses, and mounting 
swung off down the creek. 

At the lower end of the hay field they met the 
three riders coming back. The broncho bathed in 
sweat, white foam dropping from his lips as he 
ceaselessly mouthed and fretted at the bit, was 
walking quietly enough between the horses of the 
other two riders. 

“Takin’ to it natural!” called the rider, as the 
two passed. “I’ll be ridin’ circle on this gent 
inside of a week.” 

“It doesn’t take long to break them, does it?” 
commented Connie as, without dismounting Tex 
unfastened the wire gate and held it aside. 

“Well, that’s accordin’ to the horse. Some 
breaks easy, an’ some hard, an’ some you never 
can break.” 

“What do you do with ’em when you can’t 
break ’em?” asked the boy. “Turn ’em out on 
the range ? ’ ’ 

“Not by a blame sight!” laughed Tex. “The 
outlaws are the ones that brings the most money. 
Wild West shows takes part of ’em, if they ain’t 


In the Bad Lands 


217 


bad. What they want mostly is easy straight 
buckers an’ crow-hoppers. Somethin’ that’s good 
an’ safe to ride, but that looks to the pilgrims back 
east like they was raisin’ the deuce. The bad 
outlaws goes to the real show—Cheyenne, Pendle¬ 
ton, Denver, Prescott an’ Calgary. There’s real 
riders in them annual rodeos. They ain’t faked 
up like these here road shows, w T here some mail¬ 
order-catalogue cow puncher with buckin’ rolls on 
his saddle big as a loaf of bread rides a crow- 
hopper acrost a base ball lot to the resoundin’ 
plaudits of the multitude that thinks they’re seein’ 
the real thing.” 

An hour’s ride brought them near the base of 
Saw Tooth Butte, a mountain which, together 
with its foot hills, forms one of the south-most 
reaches of the Bear Paws. “You better take the 
flat an’ let me ride the high ground,” advised 
Tex. “There’s a lot of deep coulees an’ draws, an’ 
some of ’em’s pretty well grow’d up to brush. 
It’ll be harder ridin’ up there an’ a lot more chance 
of missin’ the bunch. There’s about thirty head 
altogether an’ the leader’s an’ old gray mare that 
you got to watch every minute. She’s a wise old 
crow-bate an’ if you don’t look out she’ll slip the 


218 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

bunch back past you up some coulee or behind 
some ridge. I’ll keep my eyes open, an’ if I see 
you start ’em I’ll swing down an’ help you.” 

It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon 
when Connie came upon the horses feeding in a 
shallow basin about halfway down a long, broad 
tongue of bench land that stretched straight into 
the bad lands. As the boy topped the rim of the 
basin, the horses ceased feeding and stood for a 
moment watching him with upraised heads and 
pricked ears. Connie swung wide to get behind 
them, but the old grey mare divining his intention, 
led off at a brisk trot, straight down the ridge. 
Slowing to a walk the boy tried to outwit them 
by riding slowly out of the basin at a right angle to 
their course. Once out of sight over the rim, he 
put spurs to his horse, and taking a parallel course, 
rode for half a mile at headlong speed. Then 
cautiously he drew up to the edge of the rim. 
The wild bunch was nowhere in sight. For a full 
minute he sat sweeping the plateau. A lone 
coyote loped along the farther rim of the basin. 
Two or three small bunches of cattle grazed un¬ 
disturbed, but not the sign of a horse did he see. 
Then a blur of motion caught his eye, and he saw 


In the Bad Lands 


219 


the horses a good half mile ahead, just swinging 
up the far side of a coulee. His ruse had been too 
simple. The old mare had out-guessed him, and 
as soon as he had disappeared over the rim of the 
basin, she had changed her gait from a trot to a 
furious gallop, the herd following, and by the time 
the boy had maneuvered again to the rim, they 
were far in the lead. 

Connie grinned: “Well, here goes!” he cried, 
and digging his spurs into his horse’s flanks he 
started after the herd that had drawn to a halt on 
the open bench to study his next move. “I’ll get 
around you some way! ’ ’ 

The tongue of bench on which the boy found 
himself was cut and scored by numerous deep 
coulees some of which reached clear across, while 
others shallowed and lost themselves in a maze of 
branches. It was not long before Connie realized 
that Tex had not over-estimated the sagacity of 
the old grey mare. When he emerged from the 
first of these transverse coulees, the horses had 
again disappeared, and it was only after a con¬ 
siderable search that he located their trail where 
the mare had led them into a deep ravine that led 
straight into the bad lands. Soon the boy found 


220 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


that he had lost the trail completely. It had not 
been easy to follow along the sun-baked, grass- 
covered floor of the coulee where it traversed the 
bench, but after plunging into the bad lands, the 
grass-covered soil gave place to a bed of hard, 
disintegrated rock upon which the unshod feet of 
the horses made no impression whatever—at least 
none that Connie could follow. Side coulees 
joined the main stem at intervals, and the boy 
dismounted to examine the mouths of these in vain 
for some slight mark or track that would indicate 
the direction of the horses. On and on he rode, 
assuming that they were still ahead of him. 
Deeper and deeper he penetrated into the bad 
lands, the sides of the coulee getting steeper and 
higher as he followed its winding course. 

He pushed on for several miles, giving no heed 
to time, his attention fixed solely upon following 
the band of horses. Suddenly, he pulled up, and 
glanced about him. It was getting late. The 
wall of the coulee, which had by this time become 
a veritable canyon, cast a deep shadow, and glanc¬ 
ing upward, Connie saw that the edge of the 
shadow reached high on the opposite side. “I’ll 
just look around this next bend,” he said, “an’ 


In the Bad Lands 


221 


then I’ll turn back. Tex will laugh at me for 
losing the horses after I’d found ’em once, but I 
never did get a chance to head ’em.” 

Around the next bend he came upon a pool of 
stagnant water—the first water he had seen since 
noon. He realized that he was very thirsty. The 
horses would have been thirsty, too. He would 
surely find tracks about the edge of the pool. 
Dismounting he led his horse near to the water and 
searched the ground for sign. About the edge of 
the pool was a thick mud that would have plainly 
recorded the action of any animal that had come 
down to drink. But the mud was smooth and 
untrampled. The horses had not come that way. 
Some place they had turned into a side coulee, had 
doubled back, and were probably at that very 
moment grazing unconcernedly upon the bench. 

The boy led his horse to the lower edge of the 
pool. The animal advanced, sniffing cautiously. 
He plunged his nose into the water and threw it 
about with a shake of his head. But he did not 
drink. Again and again he repeated the perform¬ 
ance, pawing at the mud with his forefoot. 
“Drink, if you’re goin’ to,” laughed the boy, “and 
quit your foolin’. And quit messing that puddle 


222 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


all up. We’ve got to be hitting the back trail, but 
first I want about a barrel of that, myself.” 
Dropping the reins, he picked his way to the 
upper end of the pool where a flat stone projected 
out into the water. Removing his hat, he threw 
himself down on his belly. With his lips almost 
upon the surface of the water he raised his head 
and listened. For several seconds he remained 
thus, but the only sounds that came to his ears 
were the sounds made by the rattling bit chains of 
his horse, and the soft scraping of the pawing hoof. 
“Thought I heard someone yell, a long ways off,” 
he muttered, and again put his lips to the water. 

“Spat!” Within two feet of his head, a bullet 
struck the pool, throwing a spray of muddy water 
all over him. Instantly the boy was on his feet, 
revolver in hand, while his eyes vainly sought the 
coulee for a sheltering rock. With a snort of 
fright at the wicked spat of the bullet, Connie’s 
horse leaped back from the water and turning, 
plunged headlong down the canyon, bridle reins 
flying. A slight movement caught the boy’s 
eye. He looked upward to see, on the rim of the 
canyon, and some distance below, the form of a 
man who seemed to be waving his hat and 


In the Bad Lands 


223 


frantically gesticulating. The next moment the 
man turned abruptly, swung himself to the back 
of a horse that had stood close beside him, and 
disappeared. Almost at the same instant the boy 
spied a niche in the rock wall on the opposite side 
and it was but the work of a moment to slip into 
the aperture which gave him a view of the lower 
reach of the canyon, the direction from which the 
bullet had come, and toward which his horse 
had bolted. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE OUTLAW 

What did it all mean, wondered the boy, as he 
waited with his revolver at cock for the next move 
in the strange proceeding. Why should the man 
shoot once at him, and then evidently try to 
attract his attention? And why, after attracting 
his attention, had he immediately mounted his 
horse and disappeared? Had someone else fired 
the shot? The boy scanned every visible foot of 
canyon, and of the rims of its high walls, but no 
living, moving thing met his gaze. It was growing 
rapidly darker, now. Evidently the sun had set, for 
there was no streak of light even along the very top 
of the opposite wall. He debated what he should 
do. He certainly didn’t want to spend the night 
cramped up in the uncomfortable niche, neither 
did he want to expose himself to a possible shot 
from the rims. He was not afraid, but he had no 
desire to be potted without any chance of shooting 

72 .t 


The Outlaw 


225 


back. He remembered that he had thought he 
heard a cry when he first stooped over the water to 
drink. In thinking it over he was almost certain 
it had been a cry. What had that cry to do with 
the shot? He remembered to have heard that 
the bad lands was the home of numerous despera¬ 
does and outlaws, but he had heard, also, that 
unless they were molested they remained on 
friendly terms with outsiders, and especially with 
ranchers whose property bordered on their domain. 
He wondered if it were possible that Kid Owens or 
Bill Harmon had broken jail and joined the out¬ 
laws. Either one of them might have taken a shot 
at him in revenge, but if so, why had they tried to 
attract his attention afterward? 

Connie gave it up as he found his thoughts 
travelling in circles. He would wait till dark, 
slip from his uncomfortable perch, get a drink of 
water, and then—he was undecided whether to 
follow his horse in hope of overtaking him, or to hit 
the back-trail and try to make the Round Seven 
on foot. “ If I only had shoes or moccasins instead 
of these doggoned high heeled boots,” he muttered, 
eyeing the offending foot gear with disfavor. 
Minutes passed that seemed hours to the boy in his 


226 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

cramped position, and with his mouth and throat 
parched with thirst. It looked tantalizingly near 
—that pool of water, and it was with an effort that 
he forced himself to remain where he was until 
darkness came. 

Suddenly he heard a sound. Someone was com¬ 
ing up the canyon. He could hear the click and 
scrape of horse’s feet on the rock floor. Gun in 
hand he waited. The sounds grew louder, and 
presently he made out the form of a horse and 
rider moving slowly toward him. The man was 
very close now, and Connie could see that he was 
leading a riderless horse—his horse! At the lower 
edge of the pool the rider drew up, and looked 
carefully about him. Connie noted that the butt 
of a six-gun protruded from a holster at the man’s 
belt, and that the stalk of a rifle peeped from 
beneath the stirrup leather at the back of his leg. 
Suddenly, the man called: “Hey, there! Hey 
you, Round Seven!” 

“Right here!” answered the boy, in a firm voice. 
“And you might as well know I’ve got you 
covered!” 

Oh, that’s all right,” answered the man. ‘ ‘ I ain’t 
a-goin to make no gun-play. But, where be you ? ’ ’ 


The Outlaw 


227 


For answer Connie scrambled from his niche 
and faced the man not ten feet distant, still keeping 
him covered with his revolver. 

“You kin put up yer gun,” grinned the man, 
“I done all the shootin’ I aim to do a while back.” 

“Yes, and you blame near got me, too. What’s 
the idea?” 

“No, I didn’t blame near git you, neither. If 
I’d wanted to got you I’d done it, jest as easy as 
shootin’ where I did. I dropped that pill right 
where I wanted to drop it, an’ no wheres else, an’ 
it’s a darn good thing fer you I did.” 

“For me!” exclaimed the boy, in surprise, as he 
returned the gun to its holster, “What do you 
mean—a good thing for me?” 

“Well, if I hadn’t, you’d prob’ly be dead by now, 
or leastwise layin’ on the rocks somewheres 
doubled up with a bellyache that would of got you 
before mornin’. Don’t you know that there spring 
is pizen?” 

“Poison!” cried Connie, a sudden chill at his 
heart, as he thought of how near he had come to 
drinking from it. 

“Yes, pizen—gyp water, some says, but others 
claims its arsenic. Don’t make no difference what 


228 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

name you call it by it’ll kill you jest as quick. 
I was a watchin’ you from the rim, an’ when I seen 
you was goin’ to drink, I yelled till I like to bust a 
lung. Thought first you heerd me, but you stuck 
down yer head agin, an’ I done the only thing I 
could think to do—I dropped a rifle pill jest as dost 
as I dasted to.” 

Connie, who had been staring down at the water 
in a sort of fascinated horror as the man talked, 
stepped quickly to his side, and reaching up took 
the gloved hand that rested on the horn of the 
saddle. “You did the right thing,” he said, 
gravely, “At just the right time. And that’s what 
I call a man. But, how did you know that water 
was poison? And how do you tell poison water 
from water that ain’t?” 

“That’s easy,” answered the man, “Don’t 
never drink no water yer horse won’t drink, an’ yer 
safe. When you seen yer horse stand there pawin’ 
an’ thrashin’ the water around with his nose, 
you’d ort to know’d the water was pizen.” 

“I thought he wasn’t thirsty.” 

“I’ve hear’n tell how you come from Alasky, 
same as Wilson. An’ likewise I’ve read how dogs 
is used up there fer to git over the country instead 


The Outlaw 


229 


of horses. It’s be’n a middlin’ hot day, an’ if 
you’d savvied horses, you’d know’d doggone well 
yer horse would of be’n dry enough to of drunk any 
water that was fit to drink.” 

“Anybody ought to have known that,” agreed 
Connie, sheepishly, “Gee, I was a fool!” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the man, “That 
ain’t exactly the way you’re figgered in these parts. 
Take me, or any of the boys from around here an’ 
dump us up there in Alasky with a bunch of dogs 
to git over the ground with, an’ we’d most likely 
pull more foolisher plays than what you done.” 

“There’s no such thing as poison water up 
there,” said the boy, “I wasn’t thinking about it. 
But, isn’t there any water around here that isn’t 
poison ? I sure am thirsty! ’ ’ 

For answer the man reached behind him, loos¬ 
ened a pack string that held his yellow slicker in 
place, and thrusting his hand beneath the folds 
of the slicker, drew out a can of tomatoes, which 
he proceeded to open with his knife: “Here,” he 
said, handing the tin to Connie, “Drink this. 
It’s better’n water when yer dry, an’ handier to 
carry.” 

Eagerly Connie gulped down the juice and the 


230 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

soft red pulp. When the can was half emptied, 
he offered it to the other. 

“I ain’t dry,” said the man, “Finish her up, an’ 
we’ll git a-goin’. Guess I’m the party yer huntin’ 
fer, an’ I’ll go ’long peaceable. You kin take my 
guns if it’ll make you feel any better.” 

Connie tossed away the empty can and stared 
at him in astonishment: “What in thunder do 
you mean? I ain’t hunting for anybody. I was 
hunting Round Seven horses. I ran onto the 
bunch back there on the bench and when they 
headed down this coulee I took after them, but I 
guess they gave me the slip somewhere.” 

“They wouldn’t of come very fer down into the 
bad lands. They rim up some side coulee, an’ 
doubled back on you. But, it don’t make no 
partic’lar difference, fer as that goes. I’ll go ’long 
with you anyhow. I’d ruther you’d git the money 
than anyone else, on account of what you done fer 
my brother.” 

Connie laughed: “I guess you’re talking to the 
wrong person. I don’t know anything about this 
money. And I told you I wasn’t hunting for 
anybody. And I don’t know anything about your 
brother.” 


The Outlaw 


231 


No, I ain’t talkin’ to no wrong person. I know 
who you be, all right. Yer the Round Seven Kid 
—that’s what folks calls you around here. They 
took you fer a joke at first, but sense you’ve 
cleaned out Bob Harmon an’ his gang an’ run 
Curry off the crick, an’ them other fake nesters, 
they’ve begun to set up an’ take notice. John 
Grey, the sheepman, he’s my brother. The 
Round Seven’s be’n tryin’ to bust him, an’ they’d 
of got him this year, sure. John was on his last 
legs when you come along. An’ what do you do? 
Do you give him the last push that would shoved 
his nose in under? You don’t. You reaches out 
an’ sets him on his feet agin. You loans him a 
team, gives him back more hay than what the 
Round Seven cattle et up. An’ then you digs 
down in yer pocket an’ loans him the money to 
lamb out his band. An’ yer men’s got orders to 
keep the cattle off’n his sheep range. Dick Grey’s 
my name. I’m outlawed, an’ I be’n hidin’ out fer 
the last six months in the bad lands. But I slip 
over an’ see John now an’ then, an’ Samuels, an’ 
Campbell, an’ kind of keep posted. So, bein’ as 
things is, I’d ruther you’d git the five hundred 
dollars’ reward that’s on me, than anyone else.” 


232 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

Again Connie laughed: “You’re out of luck, 
if you expect me to take you in. I ain’t looking 
for any reward money. So the best thing for you 
to do is to turn around and beat it, and I’ll go on 
back home.” 

The man shook his head: “It’s this way,” he 
said. “I’m tired of bein’ on the run. I’m broke. 
I’m outlawed so I can’t git a job on no cow-outfit. 
The only way I could keep goin’ would be to turn 
into a real outlaw an’ start in runnin’ off horses. 
I guess I could git away with it, all right—but I 
don’t aim to do it.” 

“Are you a cow-hand ? ” asked the boy, abruptly. 

“I ain’t never worked at nothin’ else.” 

“All right, you come right along with me to the 
ranch. I don’t know why you were outlawed. 
You don’t look to me like a crook. Anyway, 
after what you did for me, I’m willing to take a 
chance. If you want to work, I’ll give you a job.” 

“I ain’t no crook, neither. They’s plenty of 
’em that knows me will tell you the same thing. 
It was a frame-up to git my claim. But, I ain’t 
a-goin’ to git you in bad—not after what you done 
fer John, I ain’t.” 

Connie reached for his bridle reins, and mounted: 


The Outlaw 


233 


“You come with me,” he ordered. “We’ll go to 
the ranch, an’ get something to eat, and then you 
can tell me about it. If it’s true that you’re the 
victim of a frame-up, I’ll stand back of you with 
every dollar I’ve got! And before we get through 
with it, someone’s goin’ to get hurt!” 

“I’ll go along an’ tell you about it,” agreed the 
man, “But, that’s the end of it. I ain’t goin’ to 
git you mixed up in it. The PU.’s a big outfit. 
They’d bust you. An’ you can’t buck Major 
Hogan. He’s a big man around these parts.” 

“Yes, and the bigger they are the harder they 
fall—don’t forget that. If we’ve got the right 
on our side we don’t need to be afraid of ’em no 
matter who they are. And as for busting me, I’ll 
take a chance on that. Believe me, if they try 
that game, they’ll know they’ve be’n somewhere! 
It’ll cost ’em a half a dozen outfits the size of the 
PU. Where would I be now if you hadn’t drop¬ 
ped that bullet right under my nose ? ’ ’ 

The Round Seven ranch house lay dark in its 
little grove of cottonwoods and willows as the two 
riders topped the rim of Eagle and descended into 
the valley of the creek. 

After putting up the horses, Connie led the way 



234 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

to the kitchen where he proceeded to “rustle” a 
cold lunch. He had just got nicely started when 
the door of the cook’s room opened and Walt Jones 
appeared, bare-footed, and with one strap of his 
suspenders a-dangle. He stood for a moment in 
the doorway, blinking from one to the other of the 
marauders. 

“Hello, Walt,” grinned Grey. 

“Hello, Dick.” The cook advanced into the 
room. “You two chase yerselves out of here an’ 
don’t come back till you hear me yelp, ” he ordered. 

“Go on back to bed, Walt,” Connie answered, 
“We can find all we want.” 

“Yes, an’ mess up my kitchen till I won’t never 
be able to find what I want no more!” As he 
talked the cook had laid a fire in the big stove, 
liberally drenched the wood and kindlings with 
kerosene, touched a match to it, and already the 
flames were roaring up the stove pipe. “Go on, 
git! Things is cornin’ to a pretty pass when a man 
wakes up in the middle of the night an’ finds his 
kitchen full of outlaws an’ coffee-coolers clawin’ 
around amongst the grub. Clear out, now, an’ 
give me room to move around, an’ in a few minutes 
I’ll holler.” 


The Outlaw 


235 


Connie laughed and led the way to the living 
room where, after removing spurs and chaps, 
Grey lighted his pipe and tilted his chair against 
the wall. Connie, similarly divested of riding 
gear, regarded the man thoughtfully for a few 
moments. “It’s like this, Dick,” he began, 
abruptly: “If I’m going to work and straighten 
this trouble out, I’ve got to know the facts in the 
case just as they happened.” 

Grey nodded: “It won’t take long to tell ’em. 
I’ve rode fer the PU. fer the last five er six years 
an’ a couple of years ago I filed on a homestead on 
the crick jest below the PU. fences. It run along 
till about six months ago, an’ one day the Major 
was out to the ranch. You know he’s manager of 
the PU. as well as Injun agent. Some says it’s 
agin the law to be both. I don’t know. Any¬ 
ways he hunted me up an’ asks me what I’m aimin’ 
to do with that claim. I told him I aimed to prove 
up on it when the time come an’ start me a little 
outfit of my own. That didn’t suit him none 
whatever. It don’t never suit no big outfit fer 
to have nesters cornin’ into the country. They 
want to hog the hull State of Montany. ‘How 
long you helt it?’ he says, “Bout a year an’ a 


236 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

half/ I tells him. ‘You’ve had it long enough so 
you kin prove up by buy in’ in fer a dollar an’ a 
quarter an acre,’ he says. I told him I know’d 
that, but I aimed to take the hull five years to 
prove up, an’ save the two hundred dollars it would 
cost me to buy it in. ‘You’ll buy it in now,’ he 
says. ‘I’ll put up the money, an’ when you git yer 
patent I’ll give you another two hundred fer it.’ 
I told him I didn’t aim to sell it, an’ he got mad 
an’ cussed around an’ threatened what he’d do to 
me if I didn’t sell out to the PU. I let him go an’ 
when he’d got through I quit the outfit, an’ then 
I up an’ told him a few. We had it backward an’ 
forward fer a while, until he up an’ called me a 
name I won’t take off’n no man livin’, I don’t 
care if he’s manager of an’ outfit, an’ Injun agent 
er what he is. So I hauled off an’ pasted him one 
that blacked both his eyes, an’ then I throw’d the 
kak on my cayuse an’ fogged it. I come down 
here to John’s fer a few days, but I don’t like to 
be around sheep much, so I drifted over an’ helped 
Mike Campbell an’ Samuels with their stock, just 
grub-linin’, sort of, till the round-up started when 
I aimed to hit the IX. outfit fer a job. 

“Well, I was ridin’ one day south of the reser- 


The Outlaw 


237 


vation, when I come onto a PU. mare an’ a young 
colt. The colt was so lame he couldn’t put one 
fore foot to the ground, so I dobbed my rope onto 
him an’ thro wed him to see what was the matter. 
He’d run a mean sliver right up into the frog an’ I 
was workin’ on it when I looks up, an’ there set the 
Major an’ a couple of his cow-hands lookin’ at 
me. ‘Caught in the act!’ I says, sort of grinnin’ 
up at ’em, an’ quick as a flash, the Major he turns 
to the boys an’ he orders ’em to make a ride down 
Cow Crick. Then he rides right up to where I’m 
workin’ with my knife on that sliver. I didn’t say 
nothin’ an’ he didn’t neither till I’d finished an’ 
turned the colt loose. Then he says: ‘I guess 
you’ll sell me that claim, now, won’t you?’ he says. 
‘No,’says I. ‘I won’t. Not now, nor no other time.’ 
‘All right,’ he says, ‘Suit yerself. If you don’t 
you’ll do time fer horse stealin’. Take yer pick.’ 
‘Horse stealin’?’ I says, ‘You know blame well I 
wasn’t doin’ no horse stealin’. I seen that colt 
would die or be stiffened up fer life if that sliver 
wasn’t got out, so I done it. An’ you know blame 
well that’s the truth—you’ve set there an’ watched 
me do it fer the last fifteen minutes. An’ besides, 
them other boys seen it, too.’ The Major, he 


238 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

laughs: ‘What they saw,’ he says, ‘from where we 
pulled up our horses, was you with an unbranded 
colt on the ground, and a PU. mare runnin’ circles 
around you whinnerin’ her head off. I took good 
care to get the boys out of the way before they saw 
any more. They saw just enough to put you 
behind the bars—an’ no more.’ 

“I couldn’t hardly believe a man would be that 
ornery. Here was me workin’ to save one of his 
colts, an’ him usin’ it agin me to make me sell him 
my claim, or go to the pen! I seen in a minute 
that what he said was true. Them boys was 
square, all right, an’ not bein’ dost enough to see 
what was goin’ on, they’d swear to what they seen 
—an’ any jury would convict a man on that, 
’special, when the Major could prove I had a 
grudge agin him an’ had blacked his eyes. I seen 
I was in bad, an’ I was mad clean through. 

“You see, the Major, he’d git the claim now, no 
matter which way things went. If I agreed to buy 
it in an’ sell it to him, he’d have it, an’ if I didn’t 
he’d outlaw me, an’ I wouldn’t dare to show up to 
do my assessment work an’ ’stablish residence, an’ 
then it would go back to the Government an’ he’d 
git someone else to file that would sell to him. 


The Outlaw 


239 


‘ ‘ Right then was the only time I ever wanted to 
shoot a man, but I helt onto myself—even draw’d 
my gun an* unloaded it an’ put the ca’tridges in 
my pocket. I was afraid he’d say somethin’ that 
would make me lose my head fer a second—an’ I 
know’d that if I had to stop to load up my gat, I’d 
have time to git my right senses back before I done 
somethin’ I’d be sorry fer. It wound up by me 
light in’ in an’ tellin’ him an earful, an’ then we rode 
off in opposite directions. 

“To make his play right good, the Major got 
some of his cow-hands to hair-brand three or four 
PU. colts with my horse brand. I don’t reckon 
the boys know’d it was my brand. I never used 
it because I never had nothin’ but a saddle horse 
an’ I always had a bill of sale fer it. But I had 
recorded the brand when I filed the claim, an’ the 
Major know’d it. They was his colts an’ I guess 
the boys figgered if he wanted ’em hair-branded 
that was his business. Anyhow, after he’d done 
that he sent fer the sheriff an’ took him out on the 
range an’ show’d him these colts, an’ the two boys 
told how they seen me with a PU. colt throw’d. 
The Major posted a two hundred an’ fifty dollar 
reward, an’ the State, or County, or Stock Associ- 


240 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


ation or someone put up another two-fifty, an’ I was 
outlawed. I hit fer the bad lands, an’ I be’n there 
ever since. But, I’m through. I’m broke, an’ 
it’s come, like I told you, to where I either got to 
turn horse-thief to live, or give myself up. An’ I 
don’t aim to turn horse-thief.” 

The cook thrust his head into the room and 
announced supper, and all through the meal 
Connie pondered. When it was finished, and they 
were once more in the living room, the boy grinned: 
“We’ll turn in, now,” he said. “It’s nearly one 
o’clock.” 

“I guess I’ll jest hit out,” said Grey. “If the 
sheriff should happen to come along an’ find me 
here, it would git you in bad fer harborin’ an 
outlaw.” 

“That’s your room in there,” answered the boy, 
ignoring the other’s words. “In the morning 
we’ll get busy and straighten this thing out—or 
start in on it, anyway.” 

Grey shook his head: “I can’t figger no way 
out. They got too good a case. Them hair- 
branded colts was what cinched it.” 

“Yes,” answered the boy, “That’s exactly what 
did cinch it —for us. If the Major had had sense 


The Outlaw 


241 


enough to have made out his case on the evidence 
he had when you and he parted that day, things 
would have looked pretty bad. But, the way it is, 
now we’ve got everything our way. You see, I 
spent a year in the Mounted, and I learned a few 
things about crooks. One thing I learned was 
that it’s just as dangerous for a crook to over-play 
his hand, as it is for him to get careless and under¬ 
play it. That’s why a crook has got the hardest 
job in the world. He’s got one thin line to travel 
on—and that’s all. And it takes more brains 
than most men have got, to find that line, and to 
travel it. The trouble with Major Hogan, is: 
He overplayed his hand!” 


CHAPTER XIX 


AT THE AGENCY 

After breakfast on the morning following 
Connie’s talk with the outlaw, the boy called Tex 
aside: ‘ ‘ Know a fellow named Dick Grey ? ” he asked. 

“Sure, I know him. Brother to John Grey 
down the crick. Worked with him on the PU. 
couple of years back. Heard he’d got into some 
kind of rookus with Major Hogan, an’ the Major 
got him outlawed fer horse-stealin’. ’’ 

“Do you believe it—that Grey’s a horse thief?” 

“No, I wouldn’t believe nothin’ Major Hogan 
said, unless he had the papers for it. An’ then I 
wouldn’t believe Dick Grey’s a horse thief. 
’Cause he ain’t. What you want to know about 
him for?” 

“I want to give him a job. He says he’s a cow¬ 
hand.” 

“There ain’t no better one. But—he’s out¬ 
lawed.” 

242 


243 


At the Agency 

“That’s just it. And we’ve got to fix it so he 
isn’t outlawed,” answered the boy, and proceeded 
to tell the whole story to Tex, just as Grey had 
told it to him the night before. “And, now, what 
are we going to do about it?” he concluded. 

The foreman grinned: “Anyone around here 
that would undertake to buck the Major would 
prob’ly find out he’d bit off more than he can 
chaw. He’s a pretty slick article. He does just 
about as he pleases, an’ what he says goes.” 

“What do you mean?” asked the boy. 

“Well, there’s Cato Emery. He’s the Major’s 
agency clerk. He an’ I are pretty good friends, 
an’ he tells me a lot of things he wouldn’t tell no 
one else. For instance, about the Major, as In¬ 
jun Agent, makin’ contracts with the PU. Cattle 
Co., the Major bein’ manager of the PU. They 
say that’s agin the law. An’ if it ain’t it ought to 
be, ’cause the PU. pays for pasturin’ five thousan* 
head on the reservation, an’ then they run in ten 
or fifteen thousan’. An’ other outfits that run 
cattle there—like our five hundred head—the 
Government never sees a cent of that money. 
It all sticks to the Major. They ain’t even a 
report goes in of any other cattle bein’ on the 



244 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


reservation for the reason that it’s figured that 
five thousan’ head is all it will pasture.” 

‘ ‘ How does he get away with it ? ” asked the boy. 

“Greasin’ wise inspectors, an’ bluffin’ green 
ones. He’s the biggest bluffer loose, the Major is. 
He’s got every one bluffed.” 

“He hasn’t got me bluffed,” answered the boy, 
quickly. “And besides, this bluffing game is a 
game that two can play. There isn’t any way we 
could find out whether it’s true about those hair 
brands, is there?” 

“We might,” answered Tex. “Two of our 
boys worked for the PU. up till a couple months 
ago. Maybe they know somethin’ about it. Wait 
here a minute.” 

The foreman stepped to the corral, and returned 
a few moments later followed by one of the boys 
who was helping to break a broncho. “Red 
Carney, here, he’s one of the hombres that helped 
do it. Tell us about it Red.” 

“Well, the Major he come along one day, an’ 
he says how he wanted me an’ Bill Hansen to ride 
with him down to the big pasture where they was 
a lot of mares an’ colts. There’s a corral down 
there an’ he had us run in a half a dozen head an’ 


245 


At the Agency 

cut out the colts an’ turn the mares back in the 
pasture. ‘I want to play a joke on a friend of 
mine,’ he says, ‘An’ I want you boys to take these 
clippers an’ work a hair brand onto them colts. 
We won’t let ’em out onto the range,’ he says, 
‘We’ll jest let ’em run with the mares in the field.’ 
So we went to work an’ done it, him watchin’ on 
till we was through.” 

“What brand did you put on them?” asked the 
boy. 

“It was a quarter-circle D, like this.” He 
traced the brand in the dirt with a stick. 

“Whose brand is that?” asked Connie. 

“I don’t know if it’s anyone’s brand. That’s 
the way he wanted it, an’ that’s the way we done 
it. They was his colts, an’ we didn’t ask no ques¬ 
tions.” 

“What did you do with the colts when you got 
through?” asked Tex. 

“Turned ’em out in the field again with the 
mares. Then we went back to the ranch, but the 
Major, he rode on. Next day one of the boys 
found where the wires to the big pasture had 
be’n cut an’ all the mares an’ colts was scattered 
clean to the Mizoo. Kind of funny, about that 


246 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


cuttin’,” grinned Red. “When the Major was 

« 

clawin’ around in his pocket after them clippers, 
the first thing he brung out was a pair of wire- 
cuttin’ pliers. He never know’d I seen ’em, an’ 
he slipped ’em back. It wasn’t none of my business 
—it was his fence. ” 

After the cow-boy had returned to the corral, 
Connie turned to Tex: “That Quarter-circle D 
is Dick Grey’s horse brand. He told me. Guess 
I’ll just saddle up and ride to town for a day or so. 
It’s sort of dull around here-” 

“Say, boss,’’ interrupted Tex, “If you aim to 
slip over to the reservation an’ lock horns with the 
Major, take me along, will you? That there is 
sure one projeck I’m honin’ to see!’’ 

Connie laughed “Dick Grey is in the house. 
Keep him here at the ranch, and tomorrow I’ll 
telephone you where to meet me. I’ll probably 
want him to go with me, and you can come, too, 
if you want to.” 

In town, the boy hunted up the sheriff who 
greeted him cordially: “Hello, Morgan! Got 
any more cattle rustlers rounded up?” 

“No, not exactly,” grinned the boy. “I know 
where Dick Grey is, though.” 



247 


At the Agency 

The sheriff regarded him curiously: “What 
you mean?” he asked. 

“Why, Dick Grey’s an outlaw, isn’t he? You 
want him, don’t you?” 

The officer, seated upon a bench in front of the 
livery and boarding stable, reached down with his 
knife, before replying, and speared a chip. “Set 
down a bit,” he invited, “An’ tell me about Dick. 
He ain’t be’n botherin’ yer stock, has he?” 

“No, but there’s a reward up for him, isn’t 
there?” 

“Seems to me they is,” replied the sheriff, and 
the boy noted that the tone was as hard and as 
Cold as the thin, keen blade that sliced a shaving 
from the chip. “Where ’bouts is he at? You 
claimed to know.” 

It was with difficulty that Connie maintained a 
grave face: “He’s at my ranch.” 

Another shaving curled from the chip and fell 
to the sidewalk. “You’re holdin’ him down there 
fer me to come an’ git him so you kin claim the 
reward?” The man’s cordiality was all gone, 
now; and the boy caught the note of contempt in 
the words. His mouth twitched at the corners 
just as the sheriff cast a sidewise glance into his 


248 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


face. The next moment the officer’s elbow dug 
him a prod in the ribs: “Doggone you, boy! 
You had me goin’ fer sure.” The lips behind the 
drooping mustache were grinning. “I had you 
sized up different than that—an’ you kind of give 
me a jolt. Come on, now—what’s on your chest? 
They ain’t no one here but us two.” 

“They say Dick’s a good cow-hand, and I 
want to hire him.” 

The officer frowned, and shook his head, slowly: 
“I sure wisht you could, Morgan, but—^wouldn’t 
work. They’s plenty folks would talk. ’Twouldn’t 
be no time till Major Hogan heard about it, an’ 
I’d have to go down there an’ fetch him in.” 

Connie nodded: “That’s just what I figured,” 
he answered. “But suppose Major Hogan should 
withdraw his charge against him, or at least, for 
some reason or other, should refuse to prosecute 
him, what then?” 

“Well, in such case, me an’ Rudie Weight, he’s 
the prosecutin’ attorney, we might kind of git 
together an’ have the warrant withdraw’d or 
nolled, or whatever they call it. But, they ain’t 
no chanct that Hogan’ll let up on him. He ain’t 
that kind. When he onct gits it in fer a man, that 


249 


At the Agency 

man might’s well pull his freight. I don’t know 
the inside of that there deal, but I’d bet a hat, Dick 
never branded no PU. colts, without he slapped 
the PU. brand onto ’em.” 

“I know the inside of it,” answered the boy^ 
“And that’s what I came to see you about.” 
For a half-hour he talked while the sheriff listened, 
as he sliced thin shavings from his chip. Only 
one interruption occurred when a loquacious 
person adorned with a brand new mail-order cow 
costume swaggered up and seated himself beside 
the officer: “Hello, shurff! How’s every little 
thing?” 

The sheriff regarded him coldly: “Little 
things like this here bench ain’t commodious fer 
more’n two folks to onct.” He pointed with his 
knife blade to a vacant chair in front of the hotel 
across the street: “If you ain’t suited to keep on 
walkin’, that there chair ort to fit your shape purty 
good.” 

“But, I got somethin’ to tell you,” answered 
the man, with an elaborate wink. 

“Don’t fergit to remember it next time you 
see me. Good day.” 

When the man had passed out of hearing Connie 


250 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

finished his story, and the officer continued to 
whittle for several minutes. Then, very deliber¬ 
ately, he tossed away the remnant of his chip and 
put up his knife. “I guess that’s about the 
straight of it. But, that don’t git us nowheres. 
Knowin’ somethin’s one thing, an’ bein’ able to 
prove it’s another. You couldn’t prove nothin’ 
you’ve told me. Hogan’s got enough folks under 
his thumb so he’s about law proof. Them that’s 
be’n in with him on these here deals would have to 
stay by him to save their own hides, an’ besides, 
he’s got plenty others to swear the way he tells 
’em. Fact is, he’s got this here country pretty 
well bluffed, an’ he goes ahead an’ does just about 
as he pleases, gover’ment or no gover’ment. 
When it come to a show-down he’d wiggle out 
somehow, an’ then he’d start in to git even with 
every man that had anythin’ to do with it.” 

Connie smiled: “I’ve got a hunch that it will 
never come to a show-down. You see, I haven’t 
been in the country long enough to be afraid of 
him. And I’ve noticed that the last thing in the 
world that a bluffer wants is a show-down. A 
bluffer’s got to either quit cold, or keep on bluffing. 
Isn’t that right?” 


251 


At the Agency 

The sheriff nodded: “Sounds reasonable, an’ 
jibes in with, what you might say, numerous an’ 
sundry observations of my own, except an’ per- 
vidin’ you’ve left out one main item. In order to 
force this here bluffin’ party’s hand, you got to 
find someone that’s got the nerve an’ the where- 
with-all to make him quit. There’s plenty folks 
would like to see Hogan’s bluff called, but there 
ain’t no one that would care to undertake the 
job of callin’ it. ’’ 

“Tex is going to pull the wagons in a few days 
and I promised Dick Grey a job on the beef 
round-up,” answered Connie. “So, I guess I’ll 
just saddle up and ride over to the reservation. 
And by the way, if Hogan should happen to call 
you up and withdraw his charge against Dick, 
you be ready to take it up with the district 
attorney. ” 

“You mean you’re goin’ over there an’ lock 
horns with the Major! An’ you, what you might 
say, jest a kid! Son, they wouldn’t be enough 
left of you when you got through to grease a 
skillit! You, with cattle on the range, ain’t in no 
shape to buck him—he’d ruin you!” 

Connie laughed: “There’s a fellow up our way 


252 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

that makes his living fiddling for dances, and 
killing meat for the camps. He isn’t a very big 
man, but he’s killed more bear and moose, I guess, 
than any man in Alaska. Fiddling Taylor, they 
call him, and one day he came onto a big grizzly 
asleep on a rock. Taylor got his rifle all ready, 
and then picked up a dead spruce sapling and 
prodded the bear in the ribs to hear him 
growl.” 

“Well, what happened?” asked the sheriff, 
after some moments of silence. 

“The bear growled all right. Gee! Taylor 
said you could have heard him four miles up and 
down the creek. He wasn’t over ten feet away, 
and he held his rifle right on the bear’s eye. But, 
when the bear moved, he moved so quick Taylor 
couldn’t shoot.” 

Connie paused again. 

“But, doggone it! What happened?” 

“Why, the bear’s going yet. You see, when he 
moved, he moved the other way. As far as bulk 
goes, the bear would have made ten of Taylor, 
but-” 

“Haw, haw, haw!” roared the sheriff. “I git 
you, all right, son. I’ll be in town fer the next 



At the Agency 


253 


couple days. You might swing around this way 
’fore you go back to the ranch.” 

Connie called up the Round Seven, and about 
noon the next day he picked up Tex and Dick 
Grey at the reservation fence, and together they 
rode to the agency. 

A half-dozen Indians were at work painting 
the agency buildings, and as they drew near Tex 
indicated a tall man with a huge gray mustache 
and pointed imperial, who seemed to be directing 
the work: “There’s the Major now. An’ there’s 
Steve Longknife, his pet Injun police. That 
buildin’ they’re workin’ on is the agency jail- 
house. Shines up pretty good on the outside, 
don’t it, Dick?” 

The man addressed grinned a grin that seemed 
to lack wholeheartedness. 

“Dick kind of figgers it ain’t goin’ to make no 
difference to him how it looks on the outside,” 
hazarded the foreman. > 

The three dismounted and Connie stepped for¬ 
ward, as the tall grey man turned to meet them: 
“Major Hogan?” asked the boy. 

“That’s me. What do you want? Be quick 
about it. I haven’t got time to fool around. ” 


254 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Morgan is my name. I’m the new owner of 
the Round Seven.” 

“You!” 

The boy flushed at the mingled surprise and 
contempt of the man’s tone. “Yes, me,” he 
answered, but before he could continue, he was 
interrupted by the voice of the Major, who had 
taken a step forward his eyes on the face of Dick 
Grey. 

“Of all the confounded nerve!” he roared. 
“I’ll put you where you belong, Dick Grey! 
Hey, Steve! Steve!” The Indian policeman was 
at his side in a moment and Hogan pointed a 
finger shaking with rage at Dick Grey. “Take 
that man and lock him in a cell! Might as well 
not have any sheriff when outlaws with a price on 
their heads can ride the open range! Maybe 
McLaughlin can find him, now. Wait till I phone 
him!” The Major turned abruptly and stamped 
into the office. 

Grey submitted peacefully to arrest, and Connie 
and Tex followed the Major into the building. 

A few minutes later Sheriff McLaughlin stepped 
out of the telephone booth in Red Bank, and 
shook his head dolefully: “Young Morgan must 


At the Agency 


255 


of give the Major an awful proddin’. Accordin’ 
to his tell, that there bear of Taylor’s could of be’n 
heard four mile an’ I jest heard the Major growl 
better’n twenty-two mile! An’ it looks from here 
like he’d follered up his growl. I told that kid he 
better lay off the Major!” 


1 


CHAPTER XX 


CONNIE CALLS A BLUFF 

In the agency office, Hogan snapped the receiver 
onto the hook, and glared contemptuously at 
Connie: “Your maw don’t care what kind of 
company you keep, does she?” he snapped. 

“She didn’t know I was coming here—to the 
agency,” answered the boy. 

“What?” 

“I say, she didn’t know I was coming over 
here to see you. ” 

“I was talking about Dick Grey. Didn’t you 
know he’s an outlaw?” 

“Yes,” answered the boy, looking the man 
squarely in the eye. “And I know why. That’s 
one of the things I wanted to see you about. 
There are some other things, too.” 

“Well, spit it out.” 

“About those cattle of mine that I’m pasturing 

on the reservation. Mr. Rutledge, here, my fore- 

256 



Connie Calls a Bluff 


257 


man, reports that the Indians have killed several 
head for beef.” 

‘‘Well, what about it?” 

“He says they don’t kill any PU. stuff on the 
reservation for beef.” 

“That’s your hard luck. What you going to do 
about it?” 

“I’m going to put in a claim for damages.” 

The man sneered: “Claim for damages, eh? 
All right, put it in. But, I’ll tell you before you 
do, you might as well save yourself the trouble. 
The Government don’t guarantee you’ll take as 
many head off the reservation in the fall as you 
put on in the spring. All your fifty cents a head 
buys, is the right to pasturage.” 

“I’d like to see a copy of the permit, please.” 

“What permit?” 

“Why, the permit under which I am pasturing 
five hundred head of cattle on the reservation.” 

“Oh, you would, eh? Well, you can’t.” 

“I’ve got a right to see it, haven’t I?” 

“I’m the agent of this reservation, an’ what 
rights you’ve got here are just what I say you’ve 
got. You get that, do you?” 

Connie nodded: “ Yes, I get it. And, now about 


258 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

Dick Grey. I wish you would call up the sheriff 
again, or the prosecuting attorney and tell him 
that you’ve decided to drop the case against 
Grey, and are withdrawing the reward. You see, 
I’ve hired him for a rider, and I kind of want to 
get his record cleared up.” 

The Major glared for a moment as though the 
boy had taken leave of his senses. “What! What 
—what in thunder do you mean? Of all the im¬ 
pudent young puppies I ever heard of! Look 
here, if you want to file any fool complaint, go 
ahead and write it out and then get out of here! 
And let me give you a little advice young fellow, 
if you expect to stay in this country it isn’t going 
to do you any good to be mixed up with crooks 
and horse thieves.” 

“That’s good advice, Major. And that’s the 
reason I want to get Dick’s case straightened out. 
You see, I know all about his claim that you want 
to get hold of, and about the hair-branding that 
you ordered done in the corral that day, and about 
your cutting the fence afterward. One of the 
boys that did the branding is working for me. ” 

“Look here,” roared the Major, “I don’t know 
what you’re talking about! If anybody’s been 


Connie Calls a Bluff 


259 


feeding you up on any cock-and-bull story all I’ve 
got to say is to let ’em tell it to the judge when 
Grey has his trial. I guess when I get through 
with what I’ve got to say, and the boys on the 
PU. ranch, any testimony your lone cow-hand 
brings out will look kind of sickly. But, I’ve 
listened to enough of this nonsense. Here’s a 
pen and paper. Write out your fool complaint 
and get out of here!” 

“Oh, I’m not going to file any complaint here, ” 
answered the boy. “When the inspector from 
Washington comes I’ll file it with him.” 

‘ ‘ Inspector from Washington! What in thunder 
are you talking about?” 

“If he started yesterday he ought to be along 
in a day or two. You see, Major, I’m a sort of a 
green hand around this part of the country, and 
I’ve had to do a lot of enquiring around. I’ve 
found out quite a lot of things, but there are some 
things that aren’t quite clear yet. And the funny 
part of it is that the Indian Department at Wash¬ 
ington is almost as much in the dark as I am. 
That’s why they’re going to send this inspector 
out so you can help him straighten things out. 
Why, they haven’t any record of any Round Seven 


260 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

cattle ever having been pastured on the reserva¬ 
tion, nor any other brands except the PU. And, 
they think there’s only about five thousand head 
of PU. cattle on the reservation, and of course 
we know there’s ten or fifteen thousand head. 
And, maybe you wouldn’t believe it, Major, but 
they don’t even know you’re manager of the 
PU.!” 

At first mention of the inspector the blood had 
rushed into the Major’s face flushing it a fiery 
red, but at the next few sentences the blood slowly 
receded, and his whole figure seemed to shrink 
so that when Connie finished his face was deathly 
pale, and he sat slouched down in his chair, speech¬ 
less, like a man who had been stunned. “What— 
what do you—mean?” he asked, in a bewildered 
tone that faltered as though his brain groped for 
words. 

‘ ‘ Why, I mean that in a couple of days now, we 
will have this business all cleared up, and-” 

“And, you say there’s a special inspector com¬ 
ing from Washington? Coming here—without 
notice!” 

“I don’t know anything about any notice. 
But, if he started yesterday he ought to be here 




Connie Calls a Bluff 


261 


tomorrow, or next day. It’s according to the 
connections he makes at Chicago and St. 
Paul.” 

“Why in thunder didn’t you come to me with 
this instead of taking it up with the department? ” 
There was a hint of the man’s habitual bluster in 
the tone, and it was evident that his fright was 
giving place to rage. “You’ve stirred up a nice 
mess! Young man, do you know you’ve ruined 
me? You young fool! Don’t you know that if 
you’d come to me first with what you’ve just 
told me, you could have forced me to pay for your 
dead beef, and let you pasture on the reservation 
in the future for nothing, and withdraw my charge 
against Grey besides? Now, I’ve got to skip the 
country or be hauled up before the department, 
and you don’t get a cent out of it, one way or 
another! That’s what comes of a fool kid blunder¬ 
ing around without knowing the first principles of 
business.” 

“Where I came from crookedness isn’t figured 
as one of the principles of business,” answered 
the boy dryly. “You see, since I took hold of the 
Round Seven, I’ve had to kind of jump in and 
help clean up the country. Men like you and Bill 


262 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

Harmon have been pulling it pretty raw around 
here just because nobody figured it was their 
business to call your bluff. You’re right about 
having to either skip the country, or being hauled 
up before the department. But you’re dead wrong 
about it’s not doing me a cent’s worth of good. 
It will do me, and the Indians, and the whole 
country good, to have you some place else. But, 
before you go, you’re going to pay me for twelve 
head of steers at forty dollars a head, and you’re 
going to turn Dick Grey loose, and then call up 
the sheriff and tell him you have withdrawn your 
charge against him. Maybe he’s started for here, 
but if he has you can leave a note for him, before 
you pull out for somewhere else.” 

The man’s face reddened almost to a purple: 
“You confounded young whelp! I’ll—I’ll—Are 
you so blamed ignorant you can’t get it through 
your head that you’ve lost your only chance of 
getting paid for those steers? And, as for Grey, 
that horse-thieving charge will hang over him till 
it outlaws, for all of me! You’ve forced me out of 
the country with your bull-headed blundering— 
but it will cost you something to do it!” 

“It isn’t the money I care about. Ridding the 


Connie Calls a Bluff 


263 


country of a man like you is worth a whole lot 
more than the price of a few steers. And, of 
course Dick Grey could stand trial and be ac¬ 
quitted if you weren’t here to prosecute him. It 
isn’t that— it’s just that I’d hate to see you go 
away thinking you had put anything over on 
me.” 

“You’ve got a fat chance of making me do 
anything you propose! You’ve shot your bolt! 
You’re through! ’ ’ 

“Not quite,” answered Connie. “Have you 
stopped to think where you would have been if I 
had waited and ridden down here with the in¬ 
spector? The way it is, you’ve got at least a day 
or two the start of him. That’s a little act of 
kindness, maybe, on my part. But I don’t expect 
you will come across on that score. I knew if I 
came down here with nothing but bluff and bluster 
to back my play I wouldn’t have any better chance 
to win out than you had. ” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, for instance, I don’t suppose you’ve 
heard that my foreman, here, Mr. Rutledge had 
been appointed deputy sheriff. And maybe you 
don’t know that putting another man’s brand on 


264 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


your own colts with intent to injure another is a 
criminal offense. But it is. As you say, it is 
possible that when the case came to trial, you and 
your paid witnesses could secure your acquittal. 
Just suppose, though, that Mr. Rutledge should 
arrest you on that charge and take you back to 
town. With Judge Colter somewhere in the 
mountains fishing it might be several days before 
you could arrange for bail. In the meantime we 
will just suppose that the inspector has arrived 
from Washington—” The sentence was inter¬ 
rupted by a sharp click, as the major jerked the 
telephone receiver from its hook and called central 
in a voice that had lost its bluster. 

“Hello, this is Major Hogan. Can you get the 
sheriff again? What? Horseback? Well, yell at 
him! It’s important.” Several moments of 
silence followed, and at length the voice spoke 
again! “Hello, McLaughlin? Yes. Lucky she 
caught you. Said you were just riding by. It’s 
about that Dick Grey case. I want you to fix it 
up to have that charge withdrawn. Yes, that’s 
right—withdrawn. I just found out it was a 
mistake. Yes. Get it off the books, will you? 
Yes. I’ll explain next time I see you. Glad I 


Connie Calls a Bluff 


265 


saved you the ride. Good Bye.” Reaching into 

his desk the man withdrew a check book, and 

\ 

without looking up, asked: “How much did you 
say that was—for those steers?” 

“There have been twelve head butchered that 
we know of, and I figure them at forty dollars,” 
answered Connie. “That’s—let’s see—it’s four 
hundred and eighty dollars, isn’t it?” 

Without answering, the man wrote out the 
check and handed it to Connie who folded it 
carefully and placed it in his pocket. ‘ 4 Thank you, 
Major,” he said. “And, now, if you’ll turn Dick 
loose, I guess we’ll be going.” 

That evening as the three sat down to supper 
in the Chinaman’s restaurant in Red Bank, the 
door opened and Sheriff McLaughlin looked in. 
Connie motioned him to the empty chair opposite: 
4 ‘Come on, Sheriff, have supper with us!” 

“Don’t know but what I will,” answered the 
officer, as he seated himself, and shook the hand 
that Dick Grey had outstretched: “Glad to see 
you, Dick!” 

Dick grinned: “An’ I’m gladder to see you, 
Mac, than any time for the last six months. You 



266 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

give me a narrow squeak one time. Down in 
Black Coulee, it was, about three months ago. 
You rode past within arm’s reach of me!” 

“Uh-huh, ” answered the sheriff. “An’ if I 
hadn’t know’d you wasn’t no more a horse-thief 
than what I am, I’d of retched out my arm an’ 
nabbed you. I couldn’t hardly keep from laughin’ 
when I was goin’ past.” 

“You know’d I was there!” cried Grey in such 
evident surprise that the others all laughed. 

“Say, son,” grinned the sheriff, “next time 
you want to hide from anyone, an’ it’s a sunshiney 
day, jest you either pull them silver conchos off’n 
yer chaps, or else cover ’em up. I rode up that 
coulee fer a half a mile or more, with about eight 
of them condios a-flickerin’ in my eyes like a row 
of street lamps. But, how come you an’ Morgan 
hooked up?” 

Connie, himself told the story of the poison 
spring, and Tex followed it with a glowing account 
of the interview with Major Hogan. “But, what 
I can’t figger out,” he concluded, turning to 
Connie, “is how in thunder you got such quick 
action with the Indian Department in Wash¬ 
ington?” 


Connie Calls a Bluff 


267 


“Indian Department?” said the boy, “I never 
had anything to do with the Indian Department. 
All I said was just what your friend the agency 
clerk told you—that the department didn’t know 
anything about the Round Seven cattle being on 
the reservation, and that they thought there were 
only five thousand head of PU. cattle there, and 
that they didn’t know that the Major was manager 
of the PU.” 

“But—you said there would be an inspec- 


“Oh, no, I didn’t!” smiled the boy. “Do you 
know, I believe maybe the Major thought I said 
that, too. But what I really said was that an 
inspector ought to be along tomorrow or next day 
if he had started from Washington yesterday. 
Which is a perfectly evident fact to anyone who 
will take the trouble to figure it out.” 

“You mean,” cried Tex, staring in open- 
mouthed astonishment, “that it was all a bluff?” 

“Just a bluff,” answered the boy. “I told the 
sheriff that I believed the easiest man in the world 
to bluff was the man who bluffed most himself. 
Didn’t I, sheriff?” 

“You sure did,” admitted the officer. “But, 



268 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


believe me, I never thought you could work it on 
him /” 

Tex roared with laughter: “An’ on top of that 
he makes him turn Dick Grey loose, and pay fer 
the steers the Injuns killed! He told him I was a 
deputy sheriff-” 

“No, no! Tex! Why, that would have been a 
lie! All I said was that I didn’t suppose he had 
heard that you had been appointed deputy sheriff. 
In fact, he couldn’t have heard it. You never 
have been appointed a deputy sheriff.’’ 

Another roar of laughter greeted the words, 
and Tex asked: “But how did you know that 
things would break just right, like Judge Colter 
bein’ off fishin’ so it would take several days to 
get bail.” 

Connie shook his head, sadly: “Tex, there is 
something wrong with your hearing. I didn’t 
say Judge Colter was away fishing. Only that 
‘with Judge Colter away fishing, it would take 
several days to get bail,’ and, it would, wouldn’t 
it sheriff?” 

“It surely would, son,” answered McLaughlin. 
And, as they all rose from the table, he turned to 
Dick Grey, with a grin: “I was jest a-wonderin’, 



Connie Calls a Bluff 269 

Dick, how you was goin’ to like yer new 
boss. ” 

“Huh,” answered Grey, as he set his Stetson 
firmly upon his head, “if he don’t fire me first, 
he’s goin’ to have to bury me when I git an old, 
old man!’’ 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE COWBOYS HELP OUT 

Connie, and Tex, and Dick Grey returned to 
the Round Seven ranch to find the riders already 
beginning to assemble for the beef round-up. 
Some there were who had ridden the spring round¬ 
up, for Tex had only held over a few of his best 
men. But there were new faces, also, riders who 
had never before worked for the Round Seven. 
Campbell, and Samuels were on hand, glad of the 
chance to earn a little money, and at the same 
time gather their own beef for shipment with the 

Round Seven stuff, an opportunity that had 

% 

never been accorded them under Harmon’s 
management. 

After supper as Connie and Tex were seated 

upon the edge of the porch planning the round-up, 

Tombstone joined them, the inevitable spear of 

hay dangling loosely from between his lips. 

270 


The Cowboys Help Out 271 

“How they coinin’, Tombstone?” asked Tex. 
“Got the hay all up, yet?” 

Tombstone regarded the range foreman with a 
glance of pity: “That ’ud be you, settin’ there 
with more men on yer hands than you know what 
to do with, askin’ me if the hay’s all up, which 
I’m workin’ practically, what you might say, 
short handed. Things is runnin’ behind. I don’t 
know what we’re all a-comin’ to. But, I got two 
good weeks’ hayin’ still onto my hands, an’ besides 
which, they’s them two eighty-rod stretches of 
fencin’ to do, if we don’t want them new ditches 
all tromped flat. Then on top of that they’s the 
plowin’ an’ seedin’ the field down to hay. They 
ain’t nobody, without it’s a wagon boss, that’s 
ever ketched up with his work.” 

Tex laughed: “For a first class, right an’ left 
handed pessimist I’ll back you agin the world! 
But, you spoke a true word when you said I’ve 
got more men on my hands than I know what to 
do with. I won’t be ready to pull the wagons fer 
a week yet on account of havin’ to catch up a few 
more horses off the range fer the remuda . I only 
need two or three boys with me, an’ that’ll leave 
a dozen or so, countin’ a few that ain’t showed up 


272 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

yet, with nothin’ to do but hang around the ranch. 
Suppose I was to turn ’em all over to you, would it 
help you out any?” 

Tombstone shifted the stalk of hay to the 
opposite comer of his mouth and nodded thought¬ 
fully: “Yes, if I hed ten or a dozen good men fer 
a week I could clean up the hay, an’ the heft of the 
fencin’ to boot. But them there cowboys ain’t 
goin’ to jump in an’ tackle no hayin’ an’ fencin’ 
job. They think they’re too good fer to do ranch 
hand’s work.” 

“Well, maybe,” admitted Tex. “Sometimes, 
though, it depends on who wants ’em to, an’ how 
you go at ’em. Layin’ around doin’ nothin’ fer a 
week gets kind of monotonous, an’ besides if they 
go to work their pay starts now, instead of when 
the wagons pull. I’ll slip down to the bunk house 
d’rectly an’ see how it strikes ’em.” 

“Chances is, ’twon’t do no good,” forboded 
Tombstone. “Them cowboys is upity. Though 
why they’d ruther set in a saddle on top of one of 
them cayuses from sun-up till dark, than work 
in the hay field is more’n what I know. Personal, 
I’d as lief someone was to turn me over a wagon 
tongue an’ pound me with a post maul. Ranch 


The Cowboys Help Out 273 


work is easy an’ it’s safe, both of which ridin’ 
ain’t neither one. They ain’t none of them cow¬ 
boys knows what minute he’s goin’ to git his neck 
broke, or git landed into a prickly pear patch, on 
account his horse steps into a dog-hole an’ breaks 
his leg. An’ besides that they got to live off’n 
alkali water, an’ crawl out to stand guard nights, 
an’ sleep, rain or shine, with their beds on the hard 
ground. It’s plumb redic’lus fer a job—but, at 
that, I bet they won’t none of ’em do ranch work, 
even fer a week.” 

“We’ll give ’em a chance,” grinned Tex, and 
rising abruptly, walked to the bunk house in front 
of which four cowboys were pitching horse shoes, 
while others sprawled about, or busied themselves 
with repairing their gear. The foreman plunged 
directly into his subject: 

“When I told you-all to show up here around 
this time I expected we’d be ready to pull the 
wagons pronto. But, the facts is, we won’t be 
ready to pull for a week, yet. We would of be’n 
if the big boss hadn’t dropped his own business to 
step out of his way an’ do a good turn to a common 
cow puncher. You-all know Dick Grey, there, 
an’ you-all know how Major Hogan had him out- 



274 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

lawed. The whole thing was a frame-up to git 
Dick’s claim fer the PU. It would of worked, 
too, if the big boss hadn’t happened onto Dick 
down in the bad lands when he was huntin’ horses. 
When he heard the facts, horse-huntin’ stopped 
on the Round Seven long enough for the boss to 
go after Hogan. He got him, too. Hogan’s gone. 
He’s headed somewhere’s, travelin’ light, an’ 
travelin’ fast. An’ Dick Grey ain’t outlawed no 
longer, an’ his claim’s safe. Hogan was the last 
one to make the mistake of playin’ the big boss 
for a kid, ’cause he looks like one. It took the 
boss jest two days to git the man that’s bluffed 
the whole country fer twenty years. He’s got 
more brains in a minute than Hogan know’d 
there was. Ask Bob Harmon, an’ his gang of 
rustlers. Ask Curry, which he claimed his name 
was Wadell, an’ ondertook to horn the big boss 
out of six-thousan’ dollars by sellin’ him some of his 
own land. An’ ask a lot of the other fake nesters 
that tried to slip one over on him. The nesters 
is gone. The rustlers is gone. An’ now, Hogan’s 
gone. 

“But, I didn’t come down here jest to brag 
up the big boss. He don’t need no braggin’ up 


The Cowboys Help Out 275 

from me. What I’m git tin’ at is this: They was 
a little trouble with the hay crew, which the boss 
handled a bunch of them here I. W. Ws. jest like 
he handled the rest of the crooks, but it set him 
back a little with his hayin’, an’ some fence 
buildin’. You-all could help him out a whole lot 
if you’d start in from now till when the wagons 
pull, an’ work on the ranch. I ain’t askin’ any 
rider to do a ranch hand’s work that don’t want 
to. Them that does, their pay starts tomorrow 
mornin’. Them that don’t is welcome to stay 
here jest the same till the wagons pull. You can 
take yer pick, only I’d like to know how many of 
you-all we can count on for the work.” 

“Talkin’ about me,” spoke up Dick Grey, 
“I’m a cow hand, an’ I ain’t never done no ranch 
work fer any man. But if it’ll help out the 
big boss any, I’ll shovel hay from now till 
Chris’mus. ” 

“Me, too,” agreed Campbell. “Before now, 
the Round Seven has always scattered my stuff 
as fer as they could all over the range. But now 
the orders is to shove it back, even if the boys has 
to go out of their way to do it. ” 

“Same here,” seconded Samuels. “It’s costin’ 


276 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

Morgan money to turn us nesters’ stock back fer 
us, an’ any big owner that’ll do that don’t need 
to go beggin’ fer hands while I’m around. ” 

“Show us the hay!” exclaimed a lean cow 
puncher whose bowed legs indicated that he had 
been a rider almost from infancy. ‘ ‘ I don’t reckon 
they’s none of us here that’s so delycate that a 
week’s hayin’ an’ post hole-diggin’ is goin’ to hurt 
him none. If a bird’s right, no matter if he’s 
owner of a big outfit, er who he is, I’m willin’ to 
go out of my way to help him out—an’ I reckon 
we all feel about the same way.” 

The others agreed to a man, and Tex returned 
to the house and resumed his seat where Connie 
and Tombstone awaited him. 

“All right, Tombstone,” he announced, “you 
can spread out yer thinkin’ apparatus to cover a 
double crew. The boys figure they’d all like to do 
ranch work till the wagons pull.” 

“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” cried Tombstone, 
for once in his life deigning to show surprise. 
“First time I ever know’d cowboys that was 
willin’ to freeze onto a fork handle or a post hole 
auger. Must be the world’s cornin’ to an end, 
or somethin’. Chances is they’ll be so many of ’em, 


The Cowboys Help Out 277 

they’ll be gittin’ in each other’s road, or it’ll haul 
off an’ rain, or somethin’.” 

“But, if they don’t get in each other’s road, an’ 
it don’t rain you’ll get quite a lot of work done, 
won’t you?” 

“Yes, that is if somethin’ else don’t come along. 
When things looks good then’s when you got to 
look out. I remember how it was with my Uncle 
Joe. He was ailin’ fer a good long spell. The 
doctors claimed they wasn’t nothin’ the matter 
of him, but Uncle Joe, he know’d different. One 
mornin’ he gits up an’ eats his breakfast an’ when 
he’d got through he says: ‘Seems like I kind of 
feel a little better today than what I’ve felt sence, 
it’s eleven year an’ four month, come day after 
tomorrow,’ he says, jest like that. ‘Guess I’ll 
hitch up an’ drive to town,’ he says. So he hetch 
up the old mare an’ driv to town, an’ when he got 
there, along come a train an’ hit the rig an’ killed 
him dead, an’ her, both. An’ that’s what a man 
git’s fer claimin’ he feels good.” 

“Who’s her?” asked Tex. 

“Why the old mare, of course. ’Course every¬ 
one know’d that Uncle Joe’s misery wasn’t nothin’ 
but laziness. He’d be’n livin’ off his relatives fer 


278 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

years—an’ folks claimed he seen the train cornin' 
an’ was jest nach’lly too lazy to reach out an’ hit 
the old mare an extry lick to git her off’n the track. 
But we soo’d the railroad an’ got a thousan’, 
dollars fer Uncle Joe, an’ a hundred fer the mare 
which she was spavined an’ had the heaves an’ 
better’n twenty year of age onto her, an’ fifty 
dollars fer the buggy, an’ fifty more fer the harness, 
which it was mostly clothes-line an’ bailin’ wire 
anyhow—so we kind of figgered we got a long price 
fer the whole outfit—but, that’s what a man gits. ” 

Tex laughed: “Well, Tombstone, if you stick 
to the hay fields between now an’ round-up I’ll 
guarantee they won’t be no railroad train come 
down here an’ git you. ” 

“Huh,” grunted Tombstone, lugubriously. 
“They’s other things besides railroad trains.” 
He stood up, and mouthing his straw, started for 
the bunk house muttering something about not 
having teams enough to keep such a big crew busy. 

Connie and Tex laughed heartily when the 
doleful one had passed out of hearing. “Poor 
Tombstone,” said Connie. “Don’t he ever get 
any enjoyment out of living?” 

“Sure he does, ” answered Tex. “That’s where 


The Cowboys Help Out 279 

he gets his enjoyment. He gets pleasure out of 
lookin’ on the dark side of things, same as we do 
out of lookin’ on the bright side. It’s an idiosyn¬ 
crasy in his mental complex—how’s that fer a 
wagon boss? But, you recollect I told you that 
I was onct educated out of a couple years’ growth. 
If you walk through the mud with a pair of new 
boots on, fer a long time afterward you’ll be findin’ 
chunks of dry mud still stickin’ to ’em— that 
mental complex stuff’s one of the chunks. Bein’ 
interpreted into English it means, there’s a kink 
in his works that’s throw’d his imagination around, 
hind side to. It’s like crossin’ the bridle reins an’ 
tryin’ to drive a horse. See what I mean ? Neither 
do I. But anyway, he’s a blame good ranch fore¬ 
map, long as you don’t have to listen to him talk. 
Guess I’ll roll in, now. Want to pull out by day¬ 
light. You better stay here an’ kind of keep an 
eye on things. The boys all like you—even them 
that don’t know you, an’ it might be you could 
kind of smooth things over if Tombstone gits on 
their nerves—they don’t savvy him, much— 
cowboys favorin’ lightheartedness more’n what he 
does. Good night. Be back in three or four days 
with a bunch of broncs to bust. ” 



CHAPTER XXII 


A RIDING JOB 

Soon after dinner the following day two riders, 
their bedrolls upon the back of a pack-horse, drew 
up and dismounted near the blacksmithshop of 
the Round Seven, where Samuels and Red Carney 
were busy repairing the grub wagon. 

“Where’s Tex?’’ asked one. 

“Huntin’ horses,” answered Samuels. 

“Which my name’s Tom King, an’ hisn’s 
Leander Stot, ’ ’ introduced the cow puncher. ‘ ‘ We 
rode the calf round-up fer Y Bar Pierson over 
agin’ the Highwoods. Which they don’t only 
shove you three meals a day on the round-up— 
hot beans, cold beans, an’ sour beans. ” 

“An’ the cook’s a breed, an’ the bread ain’t done 
in the middle, an’ they feed you tea to drink,” 
interrupted Stot, with disgust. 

“An’ their horses is so tall you got to have a 

280 


281 


A Riding Job 

ladder to fork ’em, an’ you wear kidney sores onto 
’em where yer spurs comes. ” 

“An’ they roust you out so early in the momin’ 
you got to light matches to tell what you’re gittin’ 
hold of in the horse corral. Tex he hired us fer to 
ride the beef round-up on the Round Seven. ” 
“Wagons’ll pull in about a week,” informed 
Samuels. 

“Where’s the rest of the riders?. Ain’t they no 
one showed up yet?” 

“Oh, yes, ’bout fifteen er so. Me an’ Red, 
here’s two of ’em. The rest of the boys is in the 
hay field, or buildin’ fence. ” 

“Hayin’ an’ fencin’!” cried King, in surprise. 
“Say, what kind of an outfit is this here? Makin’ 
riders do ranch hand’s work. Well, here’s two 
that won’t freeze onto no fork handle, nor punch 
no post holes in the ground, neither, nor likewise 
string no wire! Even Y Bar Pierson never tried 
that game. Where’s the big boss? I ain’t afraid 
to tell it to him, same as I’ve told it to you. ” 
Samuels jerked his thumb toward Connie, who 
was turning his horse into the corral after a ride 
through the hay fields: ‘ ‘ He’s over yender. ” 
“What! You don’t mean that kid?” 


282 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Well, ” replied Samuels, picking up his hammer, 
and drawing a piece of glowing iron from the forge, 
“some might call him that. Other folks has kind 
of learnt to think of him in bigger Aggers. ” 

“They ain’t no man kin make me pitch hay er 
do fencin’—let alone a kid. ” 

“Mebbe, ” admitted Samuels, and a shower of 
sparks flew about him as his hammer descended 
upon the iron. 

The two cow punchers strolled over to the horse 
corral from which Connie was emerging, bridle in 
hand. “Morning, boys,’’ he greeted. “Just 
turn your horses into the corral and we’ll go up to 
the house and see if we can’t rustle something to 
eat.” 

“You the big boss?” 

“Yes. You can roll your beds off at the bunk 
house.” 

“I ain’t so sure about rollin’ off them beds. 
We mightn’t be goin’ to stop. ” 

“Oh, I thought you were to ride for the Round 
Seven. We were expecting a few more men to 
show up. The wagons won’t pull for about a 
week. ” 

“That’s what we thought we come here fer. 


A Riding Job 283 

King’s my name, an’ this here’s Leander Stot, 
which we’re cow hands an’ ain’t ranch hands. 
The party that’s blacksmithin’ over there says 
how all the riders is fight in’ hay, er jobbin’ post 
holes through the sod. Where we come from 
ranch hands does such like, an’ riders rides. We 
don’t figger to pitch no hay, nor neither we don’t 
do no fencin’.” 

“That’s all right,” smiled Connie. “Just put 
up your horses. Nobody works around this out¬ 
fit unless they want to. Just come up to the house 
when you get through and I’ll see if I can rustle a 
cold bite.” 

The boy turned away. King looked at Stot 
and Stot looked at King. “How about it?” asked 
Stot. ‘ ‘Me—I’m hongry. ” 

“If we throw off them beds, they ain’t no law 
we can’t throw ’em on agin’. Bite of hay won’t 
hurt the cayuses none, neither. ” 

“He says they don’t no one work around this 
outfit onless’n they want to. ” 

“First time I ever seen a place where they didn’t 
no one work but them that wanted to—an’ every¬ 
one workin’, even riders. Must be a bunch of 
pilgrims. ’ ’ 



284 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“That there Tex ain’t no pilgrim—not what 
you’d notice, he ain’t. An’ that bird that’s 
blacksmithin’, he ain’t, neither—by the looks 
of him.’’ 

* 

King grinned: “Mebbe we better hadn’t go 
up an’ eat nothin’. Mebbe he slips somethin’ into 
the grub that makes folks want to work.’’ 

“I’ll take a chanct,’’ laughed Stot, as he swung 
his saddle to the ground. “I’ve got the first time 
yet to hear myself hollerin’ fer work to do, outside 
of ridin’.” 

After the lunch which Walt Jones placed upon 
the table had disappeared, Connie waved his hand 
toward the bunk house: “Just make yourselves 
at home, ’’ he smiled. ‘ ‘ Spread your beds in any of 
the empty bunks that suit you. The rest of the 
boys are all working. They figured they would 
rather have their pay start now instead of waiting 
till the wagons pull out. But, it’s all the same to 
me if you boys would rather rest up for a few days. 
We’ve got plenty of grub here, and you’ll find cards 
and dominoes, and checkers, and horseshoes down 
at the bunk house. ’’ 

They had stepped out onto the porch, and King 
hitched at his chaps: “Two-handed cards ain’t 


285 


A Riding Job 

no fun, an’ dominoes is fer Greasers, an’ we don't 
savvy checkers, an’ pitchin’ horseshoes gits tire¬ 
some fer an all day job. ” 

“Well, you can sleep, or do anything else you 
want to.” 

“Man can’t sleep fer a week,” commented Stot. 
“I wouldn’t mind havin’ my pay start in now, 
neither. I’m broke. Say, boss, ain’t you got a 
job of ridin’ to do? Anythin’ jest so it’s handlin’ 
stock of some kind. Ain’t you got nothin’ to 
throw in, or throw out? Or, no broncs to bust? 
Or nothin’ a cow-hand kin do to fill in the time? ” 

“Rather do any kind of a riding job than work 
in the hay fields, or help with the fencing?” asked 
the boy. 

“I’ll tell a hand, we would.” 

“Well,” reflected Connie, “I ran onto an old 
cow this morning, a couple of miles up the creek, 
that don’t look like she’s doing well. You might 
catch up a couple of saddle horses and bring her 
down and throw her on water just this side of the 
hay field gate. The feed’s good in there, and she 
may pick up. ” 

Connie grinned to himself as both men started 
for the corral with alacrity. “Better take it kind 


286 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

of easy with her, boys, ” he cautioned. ‘'She isn’t 
in very good shape.” 

“We savvy the doggies, all right,” reassured 
King, “we’ll fetch her in. ” 

And a few minutes later, as the two riders 
dashed past the house with a whoop on their way 
up the creek, Connie Morgan grinned again. 

That evening the men from the fields, after 
much noisy splashing at the wash bench, trooped 
into supper. When the meal was half over 
Samuels glanced up and down the table: “They 
was a couple of hombres drifted in this afternoon 
fer to ride the round-up. They allowed they didn’t 
have no appetite fer ranch work. Guess they must 
of drifted on. ” 

“They’s a couple extry beds layin’ down by the 
bunk house, an’ a pack horse, an’ couple of strange 
ridin’ horses in the corral, ” ventured Dick Grey. 

“I guess they’ll be along soon,” explained 
Connie. “You see, I wanted to hold them for the 
round-up, and they didn’t want to do anything but 
ride, so I sent them on a little job up the creek.” 

Down by the bunk house, as darkness settled, 
one of the cowboys who had been working in the 
hay field, voiced the thought that had been in 


287 


A Riding Job 

many minds: “We’re riders, same as them two is. 
Looks like if hayin’ an’ fencin’ was good enough 
fer us, it’s good enough fer them, too. We git 
here first, an’ then them two comes along an’ gits 
a ridin’ job, an’ we shovel hay. ” 

Dick Grey bristled immediately: “What’s 
eatin’ you?” he asked, truculently, “You don’t 
have to sweat no harder ’cause someone else is 
doin’ somethin’ else, do you? Me— I was satisfied 
to work at hayin’ to help the boss out to-day, an’ 
I’ll be satisfied to do it to-morrow. It don’t make 
no difference to me what he sets other folks to 
doin’. That’s his business. An’ you can take it 
from me, he’s the best doggone boss in Montany. 
You’re lucky you lit here, no matter what he puts 
you at. If he figgers that’s the only way he can 
hold them birds, it’s all right with me. You 
bet!” 

“What in thunder’s that a-comin’?” asked 
Campbell staring through the dark at a slowly 
moving blur that had come into sight a short 
distance up the creek. 

The blur resolved itself into figures, and Samuels 
gave a low exclamation: “Good gosh! Boys, it’s 
them two riders, an’ they’re bringin’ in old Eva, 



288 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

head an’ tail! Oh, my granmammy! I mistrusted 
the boss was up to somethin’. He was too blame 
sober about that there explainin’. Shut up, all of 
you, an’ make his play good! Don’t pay no ’ten- 
tion to ’em. ” 

The two riders were almost abreast of the bunk 
house, where twenty men stood and solemnly 
watched their progress along the road that led 
down the creek toward the hay field. What they 
saw was a rider with his rope around the horns of 
an old cow which was close-snubbed to his saddle 
horn. Following him was another rider with the 
cow’s tail snubbed to the horn of his saddle. The 
cow had braced herself grotesquely against any 
fore ward motion, and was being pulled and pushed 
down the road by main force, taking stiff-legged, 
reluctant steps as the horses passed slowly along 
the road. 

“What’s the boss’s game? An’ what’s this here 
old Eva business?” asked the cowboy who had 
registered his complaint about the newcomers 
being given riding jobs. 

Samuels grinned broadly: “They was playin’ 
the boss fer a kid, which he’s got more brains into 
his head than some folks has got hay. I mistrust 


A Riding Job 


289 


he’s outguessed ’em. He give ’em a ridin’ job all 
right! That there old cow they fetched in is an 
old milk cow that got locoed six or seven year ago, 
an’ they turned her out, an’ she’s be’n hangin’ 
around the same bend of the crick ever sence. 
They’s a patch of loco weed on the side of a little 
butte dost by, an’ she’s got a path wore between 
it an’ the water.” With grins and chuckles, and 
digs in the ribs, the cowboys and ranch hands who 
had gathered around showed their appreciation of 
Connie’s joke on the men who had refused to work 
in the fields. “They’ll be back, d’rectly,” con¬ 
tinued Samuels, ‘ ‘ an’ we don’t want to let on we 
seen nothin’ out of the ordinary about draggin’ 
in a locoed cow. I got a hunch the boss ain’t 
through with ’em yet. It’s up to us to keep our 
mouth shet—onless’n they catch up their own 
private horses, an’ throw their beds on their pack 
horse—then we’ll cut loose an’ laugh ’em off’n the 
ranch. ” 

After breakfast the following morning Samuels, 
who was still tinkering about the grub wagon, 
managed to edge into hearing as the two men 
reported to Connie at the corral. “Well, did you 
get her in all right?” asked the boy. 



290 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“ Yeh, we fetched her in, ” answered King, as he 
stooped to loosen the rope from his saddle prepara¬ 
tory to entering the corral. “I hope you ain’t 
got no more like her to fetch in to-day. If you have, 
well hitch up a team of work horses an’ drag ’em 
in on a stone boat. ” 

“No, I don’t think there are any more to bring 
in. You won’t have any very hard riding to do 
to-day. Just ride herd on the one you brought in 
yesterday. I don’t want to lose her, now we’ve 
got her here. ” Samuels dived into the blacksmith- 
shop where he stuffed his bandana into his mouth 
to keep from bursting into unseemly laughter. 

“Say,” cried Stot, “what d’you mean ride 
herd! Why, that old critter is locoed so bad she 
can’t hardly stand on her feet, let alone go no 
place! I bet she ain’t moved ten foot from where 
she bedded down las’ night!” 

“Maybe not,” answered Connie, “but I don’t 
want her to pull out on us. That’s the only 
riding job I’ve got, and there won’t be much work 
to it. Only, don’t lose sight of her for a minute. 
You better come in one at a time to dinner and 
supper. One of you can hold her while the other 
one eats. We won’t bother about standing night 


291 


A Riding Job 

guard, though. I don’t think she’ll try to pull 
after she beds down.” 

Connie saddled his own horse and rode away. 
“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” muttered Stot, as he 
led a Round Seven horse from the corral. 

“You an’ me—both!” seconded King, as he 
threw his saddle on another. 

“’Course it’s his money he’s payin’ out fer 
wages. An’ if he wants to pay two men fer holdin’ 
that ol’ cow, it ain’t none of our business. ” 

“No—but, jest between you an’ me—that kid 
ain’t got all his buttons.” 

Through a chink in the blacksmithshop wall 
Samuels, convulsed with suppressed mirth, 
watched the two ride away down the creek, to take 
their places on herd, in full sight of the hay and 
fencing crews. Soon thereafter he found excuse to 
visit the hay field, and later the fencing crew, 
where he spake after this fashion: “The lid’s off, 
fer as kiddin’ them birds goes. The boss has got 
’em ridin’ herd on that ol’ Eva! The way I got it 
sized up, if he hadn’t wanted ’em kidded he 
wouldn’t had ’em throw her in where the hull 
outfit could see ’em. I dang near busted try in’ 
to keep from laughin’ when he told ’em they had to 




292 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


come fer meals, one to a time, so the other one 
could hold herd. You’d ort to seen their faces! 
An’ the boss, he kep’ his’n as straight, an’ talked 
as serious as a preacher. He’s got ’em plumb 
fooled—they think he’s more locoed than what old 
Eva is!” 

At noon the crews came in from the fields, riding 
on hayracks, and as they passed the two riders 
who had spent the entire morning watching the 
old cow which had not moved from the spot where 
she stood with nose to the ground, they cut loose 
with a perfect volley of advice: “You hadn’t ort 
to be off yer horse!” “Suppose she’d charge!” 
“Lookout fer a stampede!” “You hadn’t ort to 
smoke, you might start the hull herd!” “She 
looks like she was on the prod!” “Her hair looks 
rough, you’d ort to bring out a curry comb!” 
“Sing her to sleep, an’ then one of you kin come 
on in to dinner!” “Try blindfoldin’ her, an’ she’ll 
be easier to hold!” 

“Eva. Eva. 

Oh, my heart’s a palpitatin’ 

All the time that I’m a waiting’ 

For my E-e-e-e-va.” 


sang one, joyously. 


293 


A Riding Job 

The wagons passed on, leaving Stot and King 
guarding the old cow in stony silence. When the 
rattle of the returning wagons sounded from up 
the creek, King called across to Stot: “I’m goin’ 
to dinner! Be back d’rectly. ” 

In the dining room he ate alone, served by Walt 
Jones whose face was imperturbable as a face of 
stone. “Say, what in thunder is this place, a 
ranch, er a lunatic asylum?” questioned King, as 
he finished his meal. 

The cook regarded him gravely. “This is a 
ranch,” he explained. “The lunatic asylum is 
down to Warm Springs. You git off at the deppo, 
an’-” 

“ You go to thunder! ’ ’ And as King banged the 
door behind him, Walt Jones, grinned broadly. 

At supper time Connie was surprised to see that 
both Stot and King had taken their places with the 
others at the table. Seeing the eyes of the boy 
upon them, King explained: “We lost the herd, 
boss. ” 

“Lost it?” asked Connie, gravely. 

Producing a flaming bandana, Stot dabbed at 
his eyes, and between sniffling sobs blurted out: 
“Little Eva’s passed away!” 



294 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“Passed away! You mean she’s dead?” 

“Dead as Cleopatra—an’ twict as respected,” 
announced King, gravely, “The end come, peac- 
able an’ quiet at 4:15 this p.m. ” 

“But what killed her?” 

“It might of be’n the sudden takin’ away of her 
drug. I regret to report she was an addick. ” 

“Or,” ventured Stot, “it might of be’n 
suicide.” 

“Or, maybe,” supplemented King, “it was a 
fit of rage an’ shamefulness over some an’ sundry 
of remarks that was passed in her hearin’. ” 

“Or, it might of be’n a gun shot wound at the 
hands of a person, or persons onknown, ” suggested 
Stot, “or jest plain lonesomeness. We didn’t 
hold no reg’lar inquish, nor no post mortoriam. 
Anyways, she ain’t lived her life in vain, as the 
feller says. You win, boss! You got us fair an’ 
square. It took us quite a while to savvy you,— 
but we ain’t like a feller that can’t take a joke, 
jest because it’s on him. Anyone that kin put any¬ 
thing over with as straight a face as you done, is 
good enough fer us to work fer—an’ if these other 
birds, here, ain’t none too good to go into the hay 
field, we ain’t neither. So if you got a couple extry 


295 


A Riding Job 

pitch forks handy, we’ll lean on ’em tomorrow— 
if it’s suitable to you. ” 

The man’s last words were hardly audible in the 
roars of laughter that filled the room—the whole¬ 
hearted laughter of appreciation and comradery. 
For not a man in the room but felt, that the two 
had come through a trying situation with flying 
colors. 

“You’re good sports,” grinned Connie, when 
finally he could make himself heard. “The Round 
Seven is glad to have you on the payroll. ” 

A long-drawn “Ye-a-a-a!” rose from twenty 
throats, and when it subsided the voice of King 
could be heard as he looked across the table at 
Samuels. 

“But—makin’ us ride herd on one old cow— 


ain’t that the limit?” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


CONNIE LISTENS TO A PROPOSITION 

At the sound of wheels rattling over the gravel 
of the creek bed, Connie and Tex turned from the 
corral where they had been inspecting the new 
saddle horses, to greet Two Dot Townsend who, 
with a younger man, was just alighting from a 
spring wagon. 

“Hello, Morgan,” grinned Two Dot. “They 
tell me you be’n sort of makin’ history down here 
on the South Slope sence you come. ” 

“What do you mean?” asked the boy. 

“Well, the talk goes that there’s some folks that 
was inhabited down this way that’s changed their 
residence fer a spell, an’ likewise I heard this 
momin’ that they’s a new agent over on the 
reservation. ” 

Connie laughed: “I told you, when you were 

driving me out here, the day I hit the country, 

296 


Connie Listens to a Proposition 297 

that I was going to find out what the trouble was, 
and then make the Round Seven pay-” 

“Yes, an’ I figgered you had about as much 
chanst of doin’ anything with that there hard- 
b’iled outfit as you would of makin’ a North 
Dakoty flat out of the Bear Paw Mountains. 
You’ve done a big job, son, an’ you done it quick, 
an’ thorough. Choteau County started in to 
laugh at you—but they ain’t laughin’ now. 
Which reminds me I plumb fergot to make you 
acquainted with my brother-in-law here. Bill 
McLaren, his name is. He’s my wife’s brother, 
an’ he’s a Gover’ment forester. He’s got charge 
of one of these here National Forests.’’ 

Tex, who had unhitched and led Townsend’s 
team to the stable, returned, and together the 
four walked over and seated themselves on the 
porch. 

“You figger you got the Round Seven on a 
payin’ basis, now?” asked Two Dot, puffing at a 
long, thin stogie. 

“She’ll pay, now, all right,” answered Tex, 
“an’ pay big. ” 

“An’ what you goin’ to do next?” asked Two 
Dot, regarding Connie with a smile. 



298 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“What do you mean?” asked the boy. 

“Well, I recollect you told me, speakin’ about 
yer mines up in Alasky, that when they got to 
payin’ big money you kind of lost intrust in ’em— 
kind of let yer pardner run the outfit, whiles you 
was generally kitin’ off on side issues—like this 
here cattle business.’’ 

“Yes,” answered Connie, seriously. “Some¬ 
how, it’s the game that interests me more than the 
profits. After the game is won, I lose interest. 
I want to tackle something else. You see, I was 
only a little kid when I struck Alaska, and while 
other boys my age were playing the regular games 
that boys play, I was prospecting for gold. That 
was my game—and I played it—and I won. So, 
now, everything I tackle seems like a game. I 
play it as hard as I can. I want to win. While 
I am playing it, it seems the biggest, the most 
important thing in the world—that I should win. 
But, after it is won, it becomes just a machine for 
adding more money to a pile that’s so big now 
I don’t know what I’ll ever do with it.” 

Two Dot nodded: “I see what you mean. I 
used to feel that way when I was younger. Only, 
I never had the brains nor the money to back up 




Connie Listens to a Proposition 299 

the feelin’ with. The Two Dot ranch was my 
game, but it’s come to where I’m doggone glad 
she’s payin’ out reg’lar money. That was what I 
remembered you said, an’ that’s why I brung Bill, 
here, down to see you. He’s got a proposition he 
wants to talk to you about. He come out to the 
ranch fer his vacation, an’ he was tellin’ me about 
this here proposition—an’ I thought of you right 
away, so this mornin’ I hooked up the team, an’ 
we come over. ” 

Connie laughed: “Go ahead,” he invited, 
“I’d like to hear it. But, I may as well tell you, 
I won’t take hold of anything big, without first 
consulting my partner. ” 

Tex and Two Dot strolled over to the corral, 
and McLaren nodded: ‘ ‘ Certainly, I understand 

that. As a matter of fact, the thing I have in 
mind is a very big undertaking—just how big I 
don’t know, myself—but, it’s big.” The man 
paused and asked abruptly: “Do you know any¬ 
thing about timber?” 

“Not much. We logged off a tract in Minnesota 
and made a nice profit out of it. ” 

“What was it?” 

“White pine and Norway—mostly white.” 


300 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

“But, you don’t know anything about forestry?’’ 

Connie shook his head: “Never even heard of 
it.” 

McLaren smiled: “Almost anyone can go onto 
a tract of timber and log it off, as you say, and 
make a profit out of it. What have you got left?” 

“Got left? What do you mean?” 

‘ ‘ I mean what have you got left up there on your 
timber tract? You’ve taken out the merchantable 
stuff—what’s left?” 

“Why—I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.” 

“I can tell you what you’ve got left—what you 
mean by nothing. You’ve got a waste of slash, 
and stumps, and sand—and if the fire hasn’t been 
through it yet, you’ve got a stand of what the 
natives call ‘bresh.’ Young poplar, and scrub 
oak, and wild cherry, and soft maple, with here 
and there a pine tree that escaped the saws of 
your crew, and probably a few pine seedlings. In 
other words you have a tract of cut-over that is 
about as near worthless as land can be.” 

“Well, what of it?” asked Connie. “I told you 
we got our profit out of the logs. ” 

McLaren’s face became graver: “I wondered 
if you were going to say that. It is the very thing 


Connie Listens to a Proposition 301 


that any of the timber operators would have said 
a few years ago—and that most of them are saying 
to-day, although a few of them are beginning to 
see the light—to awaken to a realization of the 
vast importance of the problem that confronts 
them. It is a problem that is just as serious to 
the business man of New York City, and to the 
Iowa farmer as it is to the timber operator. You 
are a very young man. Your answer was thought¬ 
less, rather than cynical. From what I have 
heard of you, you are a very exceptional young 
man—you have a shrewd, clean brain, you have 
the aggressiveness—the pep, as the expression 
goes, to accomplish the thing you go after, and 
you have the financial means to back up your 
personal qualifications. ’ ’ 

As Connie listened he saw that McLaren was 
very much in earnest. Uppermost in his mind 
was Waseche Bill’s oft repeated warning: “Look 
out fer these yere promoters, son. Don’t never 
put yer name to no papers till you’ve looked the 
proposition over up an’ down, an’ crossways. 
If it’s good, they c’n prove it. If it ain’t, you don’t 
want it.” But, some how, this man did not look 
like a promotor. His grey eyes were serious— 


302 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

honest, and he spoke his words with conviction. 
His skin was the weather-tanned skin of the out¬ 
doors man. The boy led him on: “What is this 
problem you spoke about? ” he asked. 

“Timber,” answered the man. “Lumber. 
Where is the next generation’s lumber supply 
coming from?” 

“Why, the same place the last generation’s 
came from, I guess. Surely there is plenty of 
timber.” 

“Where?” 

“Why—everywhere. I passed through a lot 
of it coming here from Alaska. And there’s lots 
left in Minnesota, isn’t there?” 

“None! That is, none to speak of. With the 
exception of a limited supply in the south, all 
the remaining timber is in the west—and within 
twenty-five years all the world will be bidding 
against us for what remains of that. And, the reason 
for it is plain. Because everyone else logged just 
as you logged in Minnesota. Took the timber and 
left a worthless waste behind you. With a sense¬ 
less, I may say a criminal disregard of the future, 
they have taken their profit from millions of acres 
of forest and in its place they have left to their 



Connie Listens to a Proposition 303 


sons and their daughters, a legacy of fireswept des¬ 
olation!” 

“What’s the answer?” snapped the boy, his 
brain vainly grasping to visualize millions of acres 
of slash. 

‘ ‘ The answer is to harvest the remaining forests 
instead of to demolish them. And to raise timber 
as a crop. Reforest the cut-over as you go along, 
keep out the fire—and carry that cut-over on your 
books as an asset, ever increasing in value, instead 
of a liability worse than worthless.” 

‘ ‘ Can it be done ? I mean, as a practical business 
proposition? And show a profit as you go along?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“I don’t see how you could expect to show a 
profit. Why, it must take years and years for a 
tree to grow big enough to make a log. If you 
planted little trees on the cut-over it would be 
years before you could show any profit.” 

“Just so, if you started in with cut-over. Sup¬ 
pose, however you started in with virgin forest, 
harvested yearly, and reforested behind you? 
By the time you had gone once over the whole 
tract, the young stuff you first set out would be 
ready to cut.” 



304 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 


“And, you are acting as agent for someone who 
wants to sell me a forest ? ’ ’ 

“No! I am in charge of a National Forest— 
work on a salary for the United States Govern¬ 
ment. I have not one penny’s worth of interest, 
either directly or indirectly, in any timber land, 
anywhere. Quite by accident, I happened, not 
long since, to hear of a large tract of timber—two 
tracts, that adjoin, to be exact, that could prob¬ 
ably be purchased at a very reasonable figure. 
These tracts are held by two different outfits that 
have fought each other in the courts and out of 
them, until they are about exhausted. Neither 
would sell to the other, but either, so my informa¬ 
tion goes, would gladly sell to a third party.” 

“My interest in the proposition is merely the 
interest of one who sees the chance for some outfit 
to step in and do some real forest work. The 
Government is doing it. Some States are doing it. 
A very few individuals are doing it, in a smaller 
way. But this tract, the combined tracts, would 
be on a vastly larger scale than any private under¬ 
taking has yet attempted. I want to see someone 
go into a forest, not as a desperado bent on loot, 
but as a business man who is content to take a 


Connie Listens to a Proposition 305 

reasonable profit, and at the same time build up 
his holdings, so that in the future, instead of a 
worthless tract of devastated land, he will have a 
property of enormous, and ever increasing value.” 

“But, that’s a job for a trained forester.” 

“You can hire trained foresters.” 

“But, I’d want to rim it, myself.” 

“You can learn forestry. There are several 
ways. Go to any one of a dozen universities. 
Go onto a forest as ranger, and study under the 
forester, as you work—come onto my forest. Or, 
hire a forester, and study under him on your own 
forest.” 

“How much of an investment would it take?’ 

“That would depend on what terms you could 
get. The total would involve upwards of a million 
—possibly two or three millions. I don’t know 
the exact acreage, nor the stumpage scale—but 
it’s big.” 

“Would you take the job?” 

McLaren, taken completely by surprise by the 
abruptness of the question, hesitated: “Well—I 
—of course—I would want time to consider it. 
That is-” 

Connie interrupted him: ‘ ‘ Sure, I understand, ’’ 




306 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country 

he said, “I need time myself. You are on your 
vacation ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Suppose you spend the rest of it getting all the 
information you can about this proposition— 
acreage, value, cruiser’s reports—everything, and 
keep in mind the fact that you may have to take 
hold of it and show me a profit—then we will get 
together and see whether we want to handle it. 
In the meantime, I’ll talk it over with my partner, 
and I’ll tell you whether or not we want to tackle 
it.” 

“But—your partner is in Alaska, isn’t he.” 

“Sure,” answered the boy, “I’m leaving to talk 
it over with him tomorrow—be back here in three 
or four weeks.” 

McLaren stared in amazement, as Connie called 
to Tex, who stood near the corral talking with 
Two Dot: “Hey, Tex!” 

“Cornin’!” 

“You’ve got to run this outfit for three or four 
weeks without me. I’ve got to go back to Ten 
Bow for a little talk with Waseche Bill. I’ll fix 
up a checking account for you in town.” 

“Gosh sakes!” cried the range foreman, “You 


Connie Listens to a Proposition 307 

don’t mean you’re goin’ to hit out fer Alaska on a 
minute’s notice—like most folks would slip over 
to the neighbors! ” 

Connie laughed. “Yup. Heard about a patch 
of timber I may want to buy. Guess I’ll saddle up, 
now. So long—take care of yourself.” He turned 
to McLaren: “See you when I get back.” 

Ten minutes later, Connie disappeared up the 
trail. 

McLaren looked at the others. Tex grinned: 
“Kind of, what you might say, abrupt ain’t he— 
the boss? They’s a whole lot of loafin’ he never 
done.” 

“He’s a—a whirlwind!” answered the forester, 
“a man would like to work for him.” 

“I’ll tell the world a man would!” answered 
Tex. “If he can keep from gittin’ dizzy. ” 











The 

Connie Morgan Series 

By 

James B. Hendryx 

It is difficult to say whether Mr. Hendryx 
is famous because of Connie Morgan, or 
Connie because of Mr. Hendryx; but it is 
certain that many youngsters have ac¬ 
cepted this altogether wholesome and 
unique character as one to be ranked 
w T ith such historical figures as Daniel 
Boone and Kit Carson. 

Connie Morgan in Alaska, 22 Ulus. 
Connie Morgan with the Mounted, 13 Ulus. 

Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps* 14 

Illus. 

Connie Morgan in the Fur Country, 8 Illus. 
Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 




The Boy Adventurers 

Series 

By 

A. Hyatt Verrill 

The popularity of these stories for 
boys is a result of Mr. Verrill’s unfailing 
ability to see things with their young 
eyes, to write for them and not down to 
them. The books follow the Young 
Adventurers through their strange 
wanderings in romantic countries. 

The Boy Adventurers in the Forbidden Land 
The Boy Adventurers in the Land of El Dorado 

The Boy Adventurers in the Land of the Monkey 
Men 

The Boy Adventurers in the Unknown Land 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 









The Frozen Barrier 

By 

Belmore Browne 

Illustrated 

The author not only writes real books 
for real boys, he lives them. He has 
had a vast experience in the great north¬ 
ern wastes, and his settings are authen¬ 
tic. George Draper and Fred Morgan, 
who set out on The Quest of the Golden 
Valley, and who were greeted again in 
The White Blanket, now meet with other 
desperate adventures as they pack into 
the very heart of Alaska-erupting vol¬ 
canoes, sliding glaciers, encounters with 
grizzlies, through which they emerge 
triumphant. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 




The Frozen Barrier 


By 

Belmore Browne 


In The Frozen Barrier Belmore Browne 
has surpassed all his other relatings. In it 
he tells of the hazardous adventures of George 
Draper and Fred Morgan on their third 
journey, in which they packed straight into 
the heart of Alaska. 

There the boys met with perilous hair¬ 
breadth escapes, from grizzlies, from suddenly 
erupting volcanoes, from being dashed to 
death when crossing an almost impassable 
glacier, and for days having no food other 
than the eggs of wild birds, and finally 
earning the gratitude of an entire tribe of 
Indians. 

Such a graphic and thrilling account of 
experiences in the great North-west as is 
given in this novel, is rarely met with, and 
everyone who reads it will wish that he, too, 
had been with George and Fred when they 
were exploring this wonderful land of the 
Aleute tribes. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

* 

New York London 




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